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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24918049">Remedy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchaeopteryxDreams/pseuds/ArchaeopteryxDreams'>ArchaeopteryxDreams</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Stories of Aligare [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Disabled Character, Dragons, Elemental Magic, Father-Daughter Relationship, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Grappling with Mortality, Healing Magic, Interspecies family, Mentors, Non-Human Humanoid Society, Original Universe, POV Nonhuman, Pandemics, Science Fiction &amp; Fantasy, Utopia, finding one's place, hearing loss, magical medical drama, supportive communities</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:43:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>94,508</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24918049</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchaeopteryxDreams/pseuds/ArchaeopteryxDreams</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The three peoplekinds aid each another in all avenues of life. Few understand this better than Peregrine, an aging dragon shaped by decades in the mines, his wings weak and his hearing ruined. But he has always had his earferrin -- a friend of the weasel-like ferrin race, perched on Peregrine's shoulder to hear what he cannot. </p><p>His earferrin's short lives passed, one by one. Now, dear Tillian sits on her adoptive father's shoulder, assisting him gladly and with all her heart. But Peregrine knows that if he stops being a miner who needs an earferrin, clever and compassionate Tillian can be free to live her own life.</p><p>When a dreaded plague menaces the insect-like aemets in neighbouring villages, and Tillian asks if they can help, Peregrine has no more time to delay his choice. He joins the relief effort and flies for supplies, while Tillian how learns to nurse critically ill strangers. They work for the same cause: ensuring that neophyte mage Rose can muster enough healing magic to save her village. But now miner and earferrin are separated for the first time in Tillian's life — and Peregrine must decide whether they're better off without each other.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Stories of Aligare [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803451</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Foreword</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Remedy (A Story of Aligare) was first posted in 2011, as an ebook under a different pen name. This foreword in Chapter 1 is some newly written introductory matter; Chapter 2 and onward is the original Remedy story, which cannonballs right into the human-free world. </p><p>Remedy was the song of peaceful protest my young heart sang, in response to the common attitude that fantasy media isn't “for adults” unless has grim-faced humans doing lots of war crimes and murder and mean behaviour. I just think weird, quiet stories are valid! So through the lens of nonhuman fantasy people with different life experiences, I sought to look at disability, family, obligation, and the roles an individual plays in their community. What I'm trying to say is that Remedy is pretty soft for a pandemic where lots of minor characters die, and every character is more or less nice because there's too much heartlessness in our real human world already. 2020, erm, seems like a good time to bring this story back...</p><p>Anyway, thank you for clicking.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>First, an introduction.</p><p>Far away, there is a world like Earth, though it has never been walked upon by humans. This star-tossed planet lost its sun long ago and its surface is mostly dark and cold — except for a dome of magical energy that envelops and keeps warm a realm's worth of land. This place is guarded by beings of great magical power. It has plentiful plants, animals, and elemental magics . And it has no name: the land is simply called "the land" by its people, and they have never met outsiders who might question it.</p><p>The people of the land are themselves magical -- like any living being on this world, people's casting energy is as vital as their blood. Each is born with an innate elemental alignment, although with hard work and study they can all learn to wield other elements. The people of the land have no countries or governments: they live in mixed-race towns, sharing with one another their resources and their unique skills. They have never known war or prejudice. The korvi, aemets, and ferrin of the land have never seen each other as anything but friends.

</p><p>Aemets are a betweenkind people, with traits of both mammals and insects. They stand on two feet, and have two arms with blunt-nailed hands. Aemets have two curved antennae, and they mostly have internal bones except for the pillbug-like shell plates on their backs that function as a spine. They possess plantcasting magic, airsense (a tactile awareness of nearby air, plus whatever the air is touching), and a lifespan of approximately 50 years. Though often nervous and superstitious, aemets are often skilled farmers and craftspeople, those people who form the productive core of any community. Almost always, aemets become anxious when alone -- although aemet hermits are not unheard of, either.</p><p> </p><p>Korvi are a dragonkind people, with traits of both reptiles and birds. They are the tallest and strongest race, standing on two feet and using their lizard-like tails as a stabilizing third leg. Korvi have two horns on their crocodilian heads, two arms with clawed hands, and a pair of feathered wings on their backs. They possess firecasting magic, excellent eyesight, great physical resilience, and a lifespan averaging 200 years. Although most korvi are best at flying between towns and performing service and entertainment work, some fare better at tolerating mining conditions or fighting off wild predators. </p><p> </p><p>Ferrin are a mammalian people, physically similar to Earth weasels (although more similar in diet and behaviour to squirrels). They are the smallest race, approximately the size of a domestic Earth cat, covered with fur in shades of white, grey and black. Ferrin walk on two feet or four, whichever is most convenient, and use their small-thumbed forepaws as well as their teeth to hold tools. They possess electricasting magic, keen hearing and sense of smell, and a lifespan of approximately 20 years — and most ferrin retain a child-like affinity for learning through their entire lives. Their short lives often prevent them from being great masters at any one subject, but no one makes a more devoted assistant than a ferrin.</p><p> </p><p>The following story speaks of aemets, korvi and ferrin navigating their circumstances, and learning their own personal truths. Illnesses, natural disasters, and bad luck descend onto good people, and folk support their neighbours through it all. Being a good person is not always a straightforward task, but the three peoplekinds consider it vital. And once life's challenges are overcome, they become stories for other folk to take solace in, or learn from.</p><p> </p><p>This is one such story.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Go where sixteen winds whistle</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The sky is a festival attended by light</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fly until your wings blaze vigorous</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Enjoy falling – air or earth will catch you</em>
</p><p> </p><p>-Song of the Skywager dance, translated from korvitongue</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>In all the years Peregrine spent working and living, he had learned that sad days dawned eventually. His friends had only a few years to spend on him. Ferrin were a people full of life but they weren't spirits, nor gods; Peregrine had the same long portion of time as any korvi but he couldn't hold back fate.</p><p>He laid a last cornstalk on the funeral pyre. Kelria would leave this land on a blaze fit to warm the fire god. Under berry-bright paint, her bundle looked smaller than even a ferrin ought to – because Peregrine thought about the eighteen bursting years Kelria had sat on his shoulder. A friend's presence couldn't fit into any wrapped bundle.</p><p>Tillian sat in earferrin position now, on Peregrine's shoulder, shifting her silk-furred weight and curling her tail close around her. It was good of her to oblige an old mining korvi at a time like this, while watching her mother depart.</p><p>“She was–” Peregrine stopped and swallowed careful. He bolstered his voice so his clan might hear him. “She was everything we could have asked for. Even if we might not've thought to ask.”</p><p>Silence held the plains that evening. If Peregrine's mate or children spoke, he couldn't hear them and Tillian said nothing about it. Wind pulled at his quill feathers; he yanked his wings closer to his back, out of the wind's insistent way.</p><p>He shook his head. He had nothing more to say, only sour regret in his belly and a daughter-friend perched on his shoulder. The sight of Kelria passed behind his eyes, a middle-aged Kelria seated in the grass outside the mine, lacing a basket together. She made such tight, sure basket weave, tied off double for luck. She might have been a weaver and made a trade for herself, if she hadn't been an earferrin.</p><p>Touch rested on Peregrine's back, gentle as straw. Giala stood at his side, smiling wan and offering the murmuring words he couldn't.</p><p>Peregrine could guess the majority of what she said; grief formed the same flowing shape whenever his dear partner spoke at a pyre. He still wished he could hear the details, the sounds folding off her tongue: he touched Tillian's foot and she repeated in high, clear voice.</p><p>“In this life, we all loved Kelria Kellen, call her Kelria, and held her dear as anything. Her service was a gift to Redessence Clan, and we folk gathered here will miss her. Great Ambri keep her safe, all right?”</p><p>Without waiting for the gods to answer, Giala knelt, the silvery jingle of her horn ornaments piercing the quiet. Swelling with a deep breath, then blowing her firecasting essence outward, she set the pyre alight. Firelight splashed red over her feathers, carving her stark with shadows. And then she was only a shape on two retreating feet; the pyre called Peregrine's eyes; the leaping flames wouldn't let him go.</p><p>They watched in growing quiet. The rest of Redessence Clan, all of Peregrine and Giala's borrowed children, brushed close to his ankles. He took Giala's hand in his; she held tight and grateful. Perhaps she was wondering, too, if goddess Ambri minded these services of fire. Ferrin carried electricasting sparks inside them, but whatever Kelria's kind, whatever her element, she had lived as a member of a korvi clan. All of Peregrine's earferrin had.</p><p>Because his earferrin would always live this way, and pass on this way. So their promise said and so it would be. Peregrine felt chill inside, heavy as wet earth, and his inner fire could never bring that to boil.</p><p>The worst part of a funeral was waiting for the smell to burn away. Tillian fidgeted rarely, to her merit; breathing in cremation's burn through a sensitive furkind nose was a torment Peregrine could nearly imagine.</p><p>The flames were soon gone, the embers faded, the ash motes fled on the wind. Redessence ferrin approached one at a time, lolloping uneven, their ears low with uncertainty. Wellis hesitated, his posture stiff and full of thoughts; he glanced a question to Peregrine.</p><p>“I'll be here a while,” Peregrine said, hardly more than a breath. “Stay or go, however you need.”</p><p>Tillian slid closer to his neck – whiskers vibrated against his skin. “I'll stay with you. We talked last night, just before she died, so ... I don't have anything to say to her remains.”</p><p>Already tethered to Peregrine. Already sitting with her long ears raised, ready to do earferrin duty.</p><p>“Not much remains of her, anypace.” He ran a hand rough through his mane feathers, up to his horns and back down to close his own eyes. “The flames were to bring her luck in finding her goddess, so that's likely where she is. In the thunderclouds, or in the electricstone. I couldn't say where.”</p><p>Too-slow motion caught his eye – Giala pausing, reading him. Peregrine forced calm onto his face, letting his feathers lay sleek. He must have looked in passable condition, because Giala gave him a shard of a smile and headed toward home.</p><p>Peregrine stood there in the deep purple night, with Tillian as he was always going to be – until she withered with age like her family before her. People's differences were such wretched bedmates in times like these.</p><p>“It's quiet,” Tillian said. She paused, considering her own tale-telling hanging in the air. “I just hear grass, waving a bit with the breeze.”</p><p>“I remember grass.” Four generations of Tillian's forebearers had told him about it, every rustle and swish and rattle. Grass never changed. “Tell me what you think matters. That should be plenty.”</p><p>Vibration hummed through Tillian. “I can do that.”</p><p>They stood onward. Sparks winked out, darkening the ash field at Peregrine's feet. He swatted grass with his tailtip; he drew a breath.</p><p>“Tillian. It's your trade now.”</p><p>“It was already my trade. I don't think a funeral changes it that much.”</p><p>This had been underway since she was a kitten. Since her dusting of birth fur began to thicken, since she opened blue eyes and spoke in a flute pitch Peregrine could blessedly hear. He had a cask of wine at home that was older than Tillian. Somewhere on his back, one more feather was likely turning hoary.</p><p>“I'm going to listen as well as Mama Kelria did. And as well as Great Great Grandpapa Zitan did. And everybody in between them, too.” Tillian sat on her haunches, straight with pride. “I'll try my best. And I won't talk about the grass anymore.”</p><p>“Just the things I need to know about.”</p><p>“Yeah.” A moment of thought passed, in which her wide-flared ears must have swivelled. “There's a bird clucking. Over there.”</p><p>That might have mattered in some other place and moment. Right now, Peregrine stood in a silence like cave depths, and he was long since sure that he loved Tillian Sri, call her Tillian.</p><p>“You're sure you want to take this as your trade?”</p><p>“Well, I have to. It'll help you.”</p><p>If she hadn't said it sincerely, Peregrine may not have hurt so deep. They walked home, with Tillian snug against his neck.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peregrine spent years thinking, trying to recall a time that some miner had stopped being a miner. There was no legend wisdom to guide him now, no neat-laid hank of instructions. If such a tale existed, Peregrine couldn't imagine who would tell it to him.</p><p>He spent more years hesitating. He noticed lips moving; he found whole phrases mushrooming into his mind before Tillian could repeat them. Perhaps Peregrine had the faculties to interpret for himself, mine-worn though he was – but he still a miner and this was true as a honed blade. Touching Tillian's foot too often – asking her to be silent – discarded the fact that she lived by Peregrine's side.</p><p>One dawning month, while Peregrine struck chisel with hammer, he decided to change. He had chosen to be a miner and he could damned well choose otherwise. He roosted on that fact, with fear tight-strung down his back and amethyst ore breaking under his hands.</p><p>And on the day he had chosen, he wrapped the brightcasting stone in his hand, swarming his tunnel with shadows. He blew a thread of smoke to touch the quartz surface; the brightcasting spark inside faded according to his will. Standing in black depths now, this was the last he would ever see of his mines. Hammerstrokes still tolled inside his head, burying all other sound. It was time now to unmake himself.</p><p>The spark-centered quartz stone went into his carrying pouch, followed by the familiar weights of his hammer and chisel. He removed his dust-grimy goggles, settling them high on his head. And for the last time, he walked the path he had carved himself. Serviceable amethyst still laid in this bed of granite; its support timbers held sure, even where Peregrine had carved them higher to let his own horns pass. Someone else might take up this mine. He couldn't imagine who, and supposed that it didn't matter.</p><p>Light cut across his path where ventilation holes allowed it in – dust danced yellow in the beams of daybright. His feet knew the way, and his tailtip traced the ground even though his footing was sure – some fool sentiment made him want to touch the rock. He didn't suppose the mountainside would miss one miner. The sky might feel differently, when it was reunited with one of its dragon kin.</p><p>Whatever Peregrine had done with himself thus far, however much ore his arms successfully hauled, he was still a korvi. Air and wind and freedom might do him some good, vital as those things tended to be. He would have a needle-bright voice in his ear to encourage him – and as he thought of Tillian, his pace quickened.</p><p>Evening-gold gemlight seeped into the mine tunnel; a breeze carried in the fresh savour of grass. The mine's mouth came into blinding view and a slender weasel silhouette waited in the center. Tillian sat on her haunches, tall with anticipation, ears high and brush-tipped tail waving.</p><p>Hammerstrokes rang in Peregrine's ears still. Another eightmoment needed to pass before he could hear past the reverberations in his own head – and even then, the ear din of eighty years' mining would swallow up voices, footsteps, all the sounds Peregrine couldn't think of offhand because they were silent and useless now. He needed more of Tillian's aid. That much was clear. He couldn't bring himself to guess how much more time he would need to ask of her.</p><p>He stepped out into the daylight, shading his eyes with a hand, the Great Gem's warmth sliding over his back. Tillian stretched to full attention, her head reaching the height of Peregrine's knees. Her dove-grey fur was sleek, groomed with a meticulousness born of having nothing else to do.</p><p>
  <span class="u">Ready?</span>
</p><p>Her trained-crisp movements of mouth and tongue showed the words. Even Tillian's voice evaded Peregrine when he was fresh out of the mine.</p><p>He wrinkled his snout. Feeling ready didn't matter. Feelings mattered when they drove actions, and no one had ever proven themselves by walking home on a usual path. The sensation of lost direction crowded around Peregrine's heart; these western tunnels and plains weren't going to be his usual path, not after today.</p><p>“I suppose I'm finished,” he said.</p><p><span class="u">I got the markers.</span> Tillian opened her hands, letting the row of copper pegs flash.</p><p>They would melt down into something useful. Peregrine knelt, mantling his wings around his shoulders for balance, holding the feathered length of his tail level to the ground. “And you've got the stone with Fyrian's snake on it?”</p><p><span class="u">The ... Oh, yes!</span> Tillian's ears twitched higher as she realized; she looked at the ties lining her sarong, and back up at Peregrine. <span class="u">I won't untie it, I've got it in here.</span></p><p>Peregrine must have explained the ways to her before, the traditions behind every marker and charm and trinket. Taught small Tillian by telling her a yarn, perhaps, while her eyes were still gummed closed and her ears already worked fine. Or perhaps he had waited a fourday and taken her to see the ways for herself. No, he had done that with Tillian's mother, he was moderately sure. With each new earferrin Peregrine taught, his memories bled together. Tillian would be the last. He had told himself that until his mind wore threadbare in the spot, and he told himself again now: he would oblige no more ferrin to spend their brief lives on his shoulder.</p><p>Tillian poured the marker pegs into Peregrine's open hand. <span class="u">All we need to do is get rid of your mine markers?</span></p><p>“Folk will know what it means if they find a mine with no one's claim around the entrance.”</p><p>“All right.” Tillian looked at the bare mine opening, squinting to hone her eyes. “And you have your tools?”</p><p>“They're all here.”</p><p>Tillian turned a smile toward him. <span class="u">So, if your mining is done, you don't have a reason not to fly.</span></p><p>“I'll need a little fire, first.”</p><p>Tillian put a hand to the bare hide of Peregrine's calf. She felt cool, despite furkind being the ones born at a lively temperature. <span class="u">You're plenty warm enough! You've been working.</span></p><p>“Let me walk a little,” Peregrine said, “and muster the fire in my shrivelled old heart.”</p><p>“Oh, of course. The heat will unshrivel it. Right?”</p><p>“Like a raisin. Stewed in the sweetest brandy.”</p><p>She laughed, a chirping lilt. “Peregrine, you wouldn't use a sweet brandy. Are your ears better?”</p><p>Ordinary ear din filled Peregrine's head now, the constant rumbling that overlaid his life. There was no distinct hammerstroke to be heard; Tillian's voice cut through the noise like wire through wax.</p><p>“I'll manage.”</p><p>They followed the worn smudge of pathway cleaving the prairie grass. Tillian tottered on her back feet, a steady-bobbing presence beside Peregrine, five of her steps matching Peregrine's long-striding one.</p><p>She looked up at him – she had something to say and didn't give it voice yet.</p><p>Peregrine had enough years to spend waiting. He ruffled his short-cropped mane feathers with both hands; the mine dust on his skin and feathers, Tillian had told him once, made him look like a hot orange coal caked with ash. He hoped that the dust all swept away on the wind, well distanced from her breathway.</p><p>“You don't need to give up mining,” she said, “if flying is that hard for you to muster up.”</p><p>She knew him better than that. Peregrine harrumphed, frowning at the clouds strung across the gold evening sky. “Mining is the problem.”</p><p>If Peregrine hadn't ventured into close-looming tunnels – the way any flighted creature feared to – his strength wouldn't have drained from wings to arms. But he had done it. He entered mine caves, pressing deeper each day, until his flinch reaction stilled and died. How simple it had been to make that choice. Bartering his wings and ears bought a lifetime of honest work. And how simple to ask a clear-eyed young ferrin to do his listening for him, always. Promising to look after Zitan's bloodline was a layered promise but it hadn't seemed immediately so.</p><p>“You'll be fine at flying,” Tillian said. “You just need practice!”</p><p>She dragged him back to the present moment, back to this path and this daylight and the smell of grass stalks in open air. A korvi and a ferrin walking, only walking.</p><p>“Flight will come back to me if I give it more than a half hour each day.” Living a few moments' flight away from his mine was a pittance.</p><p>“You just need to use your lizard half.”</p><p>A smirk yanked Peregrine's mouth uneven. “If only I had an entire half.” Dragonkind were more like a drop of lizard in a full cup of bird: they were feathers, squawking, flapping, and the occasional, sensible instance of sloughing off their skin to grow.</p><p>Tillian chirped a word of agreement. They kept on. Plains grass swelled and bobbed with the breeze.</p><p>“The grassbugs are singing,” Tillian said. She fell to all fours to lollop; Peregrine hadn't noticed his pace quickening. “They've been steady all evening.”</p><p>That meant it wouldn't rain. Insectkind had a sense for such things, and only singing when they knew the air around them to be safe. Peregrine's memory filled in the creaking voices of grasshoppers and crickets. He nodded.</p><p>“And it doesn't smell like rain, either, so I think we'll have fine weather for a while. Can you fly now?”</p><p>Sure as stone, Peregrine wasn't going to get a moment's peace until he flew. He stopped and knelt, one knee squared in offering. It was all the signal Tillian needed; she bounded to him, up onto his shoulder with a sudden press of toes on his clothed thigh.</p><p>She wouldn't need to come when Peregrine beckoned, someday, sometime. If only he knew how many steps the journey would take. He hadn't a clue which one to take first.</p><p>He built firecasting, summoning his own life-strength in his chest, gathering a steady blaze and letting it soak outward through his muscles. Peregrine spread his wings and felt them tentatively sure. Breeze tugged at his quills and instinct made him flap, the urge for air as basic as that of his lungs. Leaping upward with all his legs and tail had to give, Peregrine clawed into the sky.</p><p>The wind soothed him some, carding through his feathers, whipping Tillian's fur against his skin. Well-stoked firecasting filled Peregrine with strength borrowed from himself. Flight was all the things a korvi was built to fare well at: fire and strength were fire god Fyrian's traits. Peregrine flew barely enough to remember that.</p><p>He was beginning to enjoy the wind when the cramping began. An innocuous burn between his wingshoulders, hardly different from the firecasting before it spread to consume his back. He stiffened, knotting tight. His wings slowed, each beat torn ragged; the earth's pull returned. Peregrine watched the prairie grass slide past continually slower, and knew that his flight had been fine while it lasted. He let the ground rush to meet them.</p><p>Landing was a white sting through his ankles, a sudden state of heaviness crushing his momentum. Then he stood calm, looking past the seed-heavy grass tops at Skyfield village roofs. Tillian uncurled her white tail brush from around her paws; Peregrine opened his grip the moment she squirmed. She clambered onto his shoulder, settling with a brush of whiskers and sarong cotton.</p><p>“It's because the hour is late, I guess. There aren't any thermals for you.”</p><p>She didn't need to make excuses for Peregrine's failings. Flying all the way to anywhere wasn't a task he had bothered himself with in all forty-eight years of the past elden. He walked through the grass cracking silent under his feet, onto the cart-wheel grooves of the dusty road. Lilac-coloured dusk settled over the land now, the gods' changing of guard, brightcasting light giving way to darkcasting. Peregrine regarded the Great Gem's steady-glowing speck in the sky, gauging its exact hue.</p><p>“I hope Giala doesn't worry,” he said.</p><p>“Really, finishing a mine is a big enough job. She must know why you're late.” Touch brushed Peregrine's temple, the arc of a ferrin ear sweeping thoughtfully back. “She did go to East Hotrock today. I'd wager that she's busy with a project.”</p><p>Peregrine sighed. “Wager the whole house on that.”</p><p>Bards could discuss love all they wanted – Peregrine knew what it truly meant. Love was living with with Giala of Heriette, and living calm in the middle of an eager, fluttering windstorm. Love was hours of fussing with gem scraps and clay dust and marble slab, because Giala took a moment to smile over it and kept smiling for days.</p><p>“Come on,” Tillian said. “It might be a simple project!”</p><p>Peregrine huffed a laugh. Perhaps the Cold and the endtimes bore down on them and his dear mate had decided to work in half measures. He walked, carrying earferrin and pouch and his abraded old wings, as Skyfield's roofs crept closer.</p><p>They passed Skyfield's crops, the neat-edged fields of corn and barley; then farming sheds, their boards and grass thatch bound with precisely spaced rope; then the main street spread full of neighbours. Skyfield folk were mostly aemets, the skinny, forest-coloured people moving smooth so as not to joggle their antennae. Korvi and ferrin walked among them, glimpses of fire-coloured feathers and grey fur. Everyone moved with purpose at this hour, leading horses away, gathering sales blankets, returning to their homes the way leaves drifted gratefully to earth.</p><p>Peregrine passed the mage home, a thatch building far too large for one bachelor; Maythwind would fill it with family someday, theory held. Folk lingered around it, talking and waving explanatory hands; one fellow eyed the wide tin surface of the chromepiece by Maythwind's door, as though each purple-deepening moment was one she regretted spending on weightless talk.</p><p>“Maythwind is charging stones,” Tillian said. Casting must have caught her nose, a trace in the air like crushed spice.</p><p>“Is he, now.”</p><p>“Not bright or darkcasting, though. It's his plantcasting. Lots of it.” Tillian's voice turned to an intrigued hiss. “He's strong enough to last an ordinary day of healing on his own, isn't he? Why would he stockpile?”</p><p>Gossip chafed Peregrine's nerves. He didn't need to know why aemets fretted at any given moment; they sensed changes in the air far less distinct than the weather. Insect intuition kept them drawn drum-skin tight and Maythwind was an especially taut case.</p><p>“He worries, I suppose. The sky might come crashing down.”</p><p>“He's been muttering under his breath a lot, people say,” Tillian said. “Something about a bad dampness in the air.”</p><p>“Ask him tomorrow, if you're curious.” There would be time to figure out what Maythwind was fussing about while Peregrine got his treatment – not that the whole village wouldn't know Maythwind's predictions shortly.</p><p>Vibration ran through Tillian's weight. She was splaying her ears and humming dubious, Peregrine saw clear in his mind's eye. But she said nothing.</p><p>The main street led Peregrine much like the mine path had, winding dusty under his feet and tailtip. Tillian shifted back and forth over his shoulders, calling out returned greetings to neighbours; conversations slipped away from Peregrine before they even began. Occasionally, Tillian tapped a paw on one of his shoulders – Peregrine at least knew whether to aim a cordial nod to the left or the right.</p><p>“How is the mining,” Tillian repeated, and then carried on talking to the Steltons' daughter as though Peregrine had answered.</p><p>In a sense, the mining was faring wonderfully – he would never carry more out of a mine than what he had filled his pouch with today. Peregrine wanted to smirk and found the expression false. This quiet-chattering village would figure out his plans eventually, and hopefully Peregrine would figure them out for himself before then.</p><p>The ground sloped downward as they neared the river groves. Neighbours passed by with buckets of water, moving stiff with effort. Houses' door curtains hung closed now, with moving shadows and fire light escaping underneath to fan out into the street dust. The thatch home painted clay-red, however, had its curtain tied wide open: Peregrine's own Redessence Clan threw light like a guiding torch.</p><p>“Hearth fire roaring, this late in the day,” he said. “Do I want to know why?”</p><p>“It doesn't matter if you want to know. You'll find out anyway,” Tillian said lightly. Suddenly, stretching taller, she added, “Somebody's coming. Left side. They're ferrin-sized.”</p><p>Peregrine imagined crunching movement, a clumsy mental sketch of whatever Tillian was hearing. The bushes waggled and someone emerged, basket clamped in their teeth. No one but Della had such an uneven, twitching lollop; she looked to them, eyes shining orange with the firelight.</p><p>Della said a greeting, muddled into the ear din. She hopped a step closer, ears suddenly limp against her neck, her voice forced quiveringly high – as though her natural speaking pitch was her own fault. “Sorry, Peregrine. Um, hi, welcome home! We're almost done for today.”</p><p>“Can I help,” Tillian asked. Her weight slid forward, hands spread braced on Peregrine's chest.</p><p>“Oh, no, I'm fine, we're fine,” Della cried. She chewed on her hand, ears splaying. “Sorry. It's kind of a mess in there, I'll clean it up. But wait 'til you see what Giala's doing!”</p><p>She darted into the Redessence Clan home. Peregrine followed, the heat slamming around him before the door curtain had even brushed his horn. He could imagine the bustle that had gone into the work today, all the wood and coal and clay and water and excitement; he thanked fortune that he had missed it. Distracting as thinking was, he narrowly avoided a slimy clay puddle, by placing his foot in a different slimy clay puddle.</p><p>Giala made the mayhem look right. She sat bent over her potter's wheel with rapt attention, shadowed deep by the fire. Glancing up, she smiled for him.</p><p>“Hello, my light.” Her smile spread wider, stretching her crisp-shaped words, creeping into the high edges of her voice. “Long day, isn't it?”</p><p>“This clan,” Peregrine said, righting a bucket even though its contents had long since spilled and crusted, “should have been called Redearth.”</p><p>“Marshsplatter sounds nicer, I think.” Giala got to her feet, flicked her hands clean of wet clay, and jaunted closer. “How are your wings?”</p><p>Once Tillian leaped to the floor, Peregrine straightened, in time to meet his better half in his arms. “They've been better.”</p><p>“That's not what I asked, though.”</p><p>“Feh.” Peregrine laced fingers through her blonde feathers, where dense wing muscles curved down her back. “I flew most of the way home.”</p><p>“Good.” Giala pulled back to grin at him, her horn ornaments jangled a fanfare. The two of them were equally powdered with the dust of their work, although Giala was fire-warm enough to be giddy about it. “Flying will get easier, truly, it will. It's like practicing a dance.”</p><p>Korvi didn't hatch with a need to dance. They hatched waiting for their feathers to grow, looking skyward and wanting. Although Peregrine couldn't speak for Giala on that front; she said she danced out of her eggshells and that wasn't the least likely story Peregrine had ever heard.</p><p>“I've got good news!” Pulling from Peregrine's arms, turning so her every mica-jewelled bauble flashed, Giala returned to her potter's wheel. “Aside from remembering to move the carpets before mixing clay.”</p><p>“That's kind of you.”</p><p>She poked her tongue between her teeth at him. “Now, I'm sure you've gathered as much, but I have a project.”</p><p>Peregrine settled by the wash basin, sitting against his braced tail as he towelled off dust. And he listened to Giala's account of the day's unremarkable gossip.</p><p>He minded Tillian, too, while she sat crumbling clay hunks with Della, her ears and whiskers punctuating her speech. Perhaps she could make a trade of helping Giala with craftwork, the way Della and Wellis and Keevi did. Or perhaps not – Tillian wasn't the sort to fuss with objects if she had people to fuss with instead. She drank in her earferrin training, at an age where most ferrin kits couldn't pin their attention to one subject any more than they could pin down water. Tillian took to the work like she was born for it.</p><p>Peregrine watched Tillian's spider-spread fingers working the clay; he tried to imagine Kelria living as a potter, or any of the ferrin before her. The possibilities barely mattered when Peregrine stood there, deaf and riveted, in the middle of each life.</p><p>“–Well, long story snipped short,” Giala continued, “the Weavers had a hi-and-how-are-you message they wanted me to fly with, and they offered some sweet onions for my trouble. So I went to East Hotrock today.”</p><p>East Hotrock, the portion of the volcano riddled with town-tunnels, was two hundred furlongs away – close enough for any typical korvi to fly there on a half hour and a whim. If Peregrine had ventured out of his mine earlier, he might have seen Giala pass bird-distant through the clouds. Tillian quirked her ears higher: she had been sitting outside when Giala passed overhead that day, but ferrin eyes couldn't see a blessed thing from so far away.</p><p>Giala roosted at her potter's wheel, sitting on her shins. “It was sheer fortune, thank Bright and Dark, but I ran into the East Hotrock leader. You remember Tijo, don't you? It turns out he's thinking of getting a set of new Legend Creatures for their aemets' Middling Circle.” She waved a dust-caked hand. “They're picky about their celebration articles, you know. It seems their statues have a rust about them and great Verdana wouldn't approve. So I told Tijo I'd make new statues for him! Clay isn't likely to rust, after all.”</p><p>Peregrine muttered a thinking sound. “You know the Middling is twelve days away, don't you?”</p><p>“No, it's–” Giala blinked, the numbers clicking together behind her eyes. “Oh, embers. The Middling is the same day every month, isn't it?” She turned the wheel, eyeing the clay as a lump of potential. “Well, twelve days? I'll have a day to spend on each Creature. That's lucky.”</p><p>For her sake, Peregrine hoped luck would matter. All the coincidence in the land couldn't make paints and sealants dry quicker. “Well? What do you need?”</p><p>“Mostly clay, for the moment.” Giala carved the wet clay with her claws' edges, squinting, considering. “Wellis and Keevi have that well under control, the dear things love that new two-ferrin basket of theirs. I have plenty of paint hues, and your gem bin has most of the colours I'll need. Oh, except for green stones. Mandragora needs to have a shine on his leaves, to catch the eye, you know? Maybe peridots.”</p><p>“Peridots,” Peregrine muttered.</p><p>“They'd be lovely! I heard Valeover town is finding peridots on anthills again, the barley-grain-sized ones.” Giala paused, fixing him with soft eyes. “It isn't too far to fly. Would you go for me? I'd wager you can be there and back tomorrow before it gets dark.”</p><p>Any ordinary korvi could be finished the trip by midday. Measurements kept clearing Peregrine's vision. He was one hundred and sixty-nine years old; he hadn't flown casually in half that long; he had five clan members to keep in comfort, plus any more children Zitan's descendants gave him, from Tillian or Wellis or both. Peregrine was no leader of a proud, dozens-strong korvi house – but great Fyrian help him, his responsibilities sat here, plain in the hearth firelight. This was what he had to support, with all the might in his mine-wasted wings.</p><p>“I'll bring your peridots,” Peregrine said, dropping his dust-grey towel aside. “Just don't wager on when I'll return.”</p><p>“Do what you can, light. I'll save the Mandragora for last.”</p><p>“This will be a good first leap, however you do it,” Tillian said.</p><p>Della spoke, too low to grasp.</p><p>“She said this is more like Dirtymess Clan.”</p><p>“Sorry!”</p><p>Peregrine rolled his gaze upward. “Hopelessmudpit Clan has a fine ring to it. At any pace, I'll leave at first bright light tomorrow. That's best if I want a spoonful of Maythwind's attention.”</p><p>Tillian chirped agreement. Giala beamed a little more, and asked Della something about the clay. And with that decided, Peregrine sank into his own din-walled quiet.</p><p>He hadn't brought his mining hammer and chisel home in a decade; they looked forlorn in his hands, too scuffed and too veteran to match any furnishing in the lively Redessence household. These tools would need a home other than a mine floor. Peregrine stood them beside the door, and hoped to stop noticing them. Tempered in mining fire as they were, melting them unrecognizable would be a chore.</p><p>Wellis and Keevi returned. They trotted with boundless ferrin energy, sharing the weight of their basket the single-minded way they shared everything, chattering as soon as their jaws were free. Peregrine saw to the ferrin's night meal – a hash of breakfast leftovers they said tasted best when he cooked it – and then began his last night of cleaning ore.</p><p>Piles formed in front of Peregrine as he worked. He gave wry thanks to the smothering fire heat in the home; it soothed his wingshoulders, at least, while he bent concentrating. The effort got him a generous handful of gem gravel, the chips of amethyst and quartz that already resembled beads; he also pried threads of iron out to form a metal mouse-nest, although not enough to smelt. The real merit was in the cleaned gems, the three points of purple-clear amethyst crystal as long as Peregrine's hand. Each one was unmarred and large enough for a mage to pack casting energy into. Peregrine made himself content with the amethyst, a stone that was what it was. Clear quartz fetched a better price in trade – it welcomed all elements of casting in a way coloured gems didn't – but flawless amethyst would serve some darkcaster perfectly well.</p><p>“Peregrine?”</p><p>Tillian's voice. He hummed and picked a last speck of dull stone off a crystal facet, to finish the job. When he looked to Tillian, he found her grooming a clay-red smear out of her fur.</p><p>“Don't swallow dust.”</p><p>“I washed off most of it,” she replied. “That was only a spot I missed.”</p><p>Dust hurt furkind lungs. They were such sensitive creatures, quivering all over with whiskers and hair, delicate like barely-set jelly. Peregrine felt the caked presence of dust he had already washed away.</p><p>“You're almost done, right?” Tillian eyed his work. “When you've got a moment, would you fix something for me?”</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“Just my necklace.” She reached between her shoulders and the knot dissolved for her. “The cord is wearing through, and I don't want to lose it by accident.”</p><p>She offered it in cupped hands, the hawk-eye stone gleaming smooth and blue as iron. Perhaps Peregrine never noticed it anymore because it hid in Tillian's fur – or because he had looked at that stone so many times, he stopped bothering to see. The colour had suited Kelria, too.</p><p>“Leave it here, by the amethyst,” he said. “I'll look after it.”</p><p>“Thank you!”</p><p>Tillian left on slower-lolloping steps than usual. Reverence overtook her whenever she thought particularly about her necklace. Perhaps she heard its story again in her mind's ear. Possibly, she thought about the entirety of things Redessence earferrin passed down to their children – a stone and some skills and a deaf old man for company. Peregrine didn't imagine that she thought about her work in that particular tone; she had never cared for bitter flavours.</p><p>He sorted the clean gems and metals into their storage baskets, as trading fodder for the future. A few granite hunks still glinted with iron but his stomach for the work was gone; the ore fell back into its box with a clatter he could feel, not hear.</p><p>It took him only a few clicks to cut a new thong from a deerskin scrap. He slid the hawk-eye bead into place, and turned it between his callused fingers. He had been lucky, finding this pretty trinket in the ore. Hawk-eye stones were said to make a person's mind as sharp as talons. But Peregrine should have traded this one, and hoped it ended up on the other side of the land.</p><p>There was nothing to fix about the stone itself. He returned it to Tillian; she smiled her thanks. The pendant was just a family keepsake again, one that slipped into her chest fur and persuaded her blue eyes to look even bluer.</p><p>Stones wouldn't mean a thing to Peregrine, someday. His clan's gem stores would dwindle to a milky quartz at the bottom of a storage bin, the sort everyone suddenly remembered they had. Perhaps Redessence Clan would take a bargain on raw ore because Peregrine happened to know how to refine it. Minerals would be coincidences, nothing more. Peregrine's primary quills would moult and regrow, and fray happily with use, and his old ways would fade like crumbling sandstone; there was only the question of what would remain. It would need to be light enough to fly with.</p><p>He laid in bed and the heat held him above sleep, speeding his lizard heart more than he could ignore. Peregrine stared at the wall thatch. His family's voices faded, and the hearth sizzled angrily at its dousing water, and then he heard nothing but ear din. Not true quiet, but a fair substitute. The mattress shifted as Giala joined him; dry-stale grass smell leaped into the air.</p><p>She murmured something high-edged. Perhaps <span class="u">sorry, light</span>.</p><p>“I wasn't asleep.” He couldn't fathom how a career potter could get any rest, waiting for their fire heat to disperse. But then, most korvi couldn't imagine feeling calm inside a smothering mine tunnel –- and they would never trade their wings or their hearing to understand.</p><p>Gentle touch traced Peregrine's shoulder, smoothing his feathers. The last of the coals' light draped Giala and turned her dark eyes bottomless. For all the accessories she wreathed herself with, Peregrine liked her best like this: her skin all bare; her horns plain except for the etchings; her mane feathers loose, with nothing to catch between his fingers.</p><p><span class="u">Ready for the new job?</span> She spoke low, lips shaping careful. They had no reason to disturb the nest of sleeping ferrin across the room.</p><p>“I suppose. If you change your job every eightday, it can't be so hard.”</p><p>He got a grin for that. Giala's hand lifted and resettled on his shoulder, a swat she couldn't manage to mean. <span class="u">Look here, it's more like every two eightdays. My muses don't live well in a cage.</span></p><p>Peregrine imagined creative urges to be like feather lice, full of little fidgeting legs fit to drive a person mad. Or perhaps the sensation wasn't limited to art and craft. The thought of declaring himself a messenger made him his skin prickle, too. Job changes, he decided, were all difficult itches to scratch.</p><p>Giala settled, folding her free arm under her chin. <span class="u">It's like dancing, though, truly. You just need to practice until it all comes back for you. Last time I tried the Waverbreeze, it was hard to make the steps come out right. My House wouldn't like it one whit.</span></p><p>Heriette House would likely support their daughter if she decided to sit in a tree and become a squirrel.</p><p><span class="u">But take it one flap at a time, all right?</span> Giala's claws threading through Peregrine's feathers, a slow suggestion. <span class="u">If a youth just learning his wings can fly an errand, you can surely make just as good an effort of it. I haven't told anyone, so you won't get errands until you ask for them.</span></p><p>Peregrine wrinkled his snout. “I'm surprised Maythwind hasn't told the whole land.”</p><p>
  <span class="u">If he did tell folk, he wouldn't mean any harm by it. You know that.</span>
</p><p>Perhaps Peregrine would know if he concentrated on Maythwind's chatter instead of leaving it for his earferrin to sift. He couldn't make sense of himself, planning to ask folk for errands when he couldn't even hear the requests they made.</p><p>“I'm bringing Tillian to Valeover,” he said. Tillian would be glad to help him until he figured something out; she would never think to say no.</p><p><span class="u">Good.</span> Giala smiled glowing. <span class="u">She'll love the sights.</span></p><p>They paused in the muted dark. If Tillian saw more, she might choose to wander, drawn away by scent and sound and curiosity. She could discover a life of her own, find a mate, and define herself by something other than Redessence Clan. Ferrin weren't made to be tied down. Not without family names to pride themselves with. Not when they had such breeze-quick lives and open hearts.</p><p>Peregrine faced the wall, laying his throat and chin flat on the mattress to rest. He was fortunate that Zitan's family line had lingered in Redessence this long. A kit or two from each generation had stayed with the clan for nearly two eldens – no one with sense would have bet on that.</p><p>“We'll see what comes of it,” he said.</p><p>A hum ran through Giala. “It'll turn out all right. We'll see.” Her touch lightened to nothing, and she squirmed to a comfortable stillness.</p><p>With that, Peregrine mulled again in his ears' hum and the fire's heat. It was about banished time he took Tillian travelling: none of the other ferrin in Skyfield caught her eye and moreover, half of them were her cousins. She was twelve precious years old: childlessness wasn't a choice to be made for lack of thought on the matter. She might find a new life around some corner, during any intake of breath.</p><p>Once, half a lifetime ago, Zitan had suddenly sat taller on Peregrine's shoulder.</p><p><span class="u">Over there</span>, he said, craning to see past village folk.</p><p>It felt stiflingly important and Peregrine went toward the <span class="u">over </span>t<span class="u">here</span>, searching blind in the middle of daybright. It had turned out to be a plain stretch of town street, with milling people of all kinds, with vendors sitting behind rainbow blankets.</p><p><span class="u">Yes, here</span>, Zitan had said. The vendor to their left was selling cider; Zitan heard liquid splashing and Peregrine had mentioned something about wetting his throat, hadn't he?</p><p>How talented his earferrin friend was, Peregrine had thought. Full of intuition, responding as bodily as a strummed harpstring.</p><p>He bartered for two cups of drink. It was fresh, tart cider, and Peregrine had sat on his tail savouring his portion while Zitan talked with the cup-washing assistant – a fine-boned ferrin polite enough to stifle her occasional cough. She joined Redessence soon enough.</p><p>If dear Zitan's spirit could think of the clan now – if he could visit from the thunder goddess's clouds and see Peregrine and Giala with only ferrin children – he would grin. Then he would prod Peregrine for worrying too much. Thinking of Zitan always hurt. Tillian wore her ancestor's white tip markings and his smile; she lived with the same unending need to mind others.</p><p>Such trepidation over a simple errand flight. Peregrine was an old dog worrying a bone; he blew a sigh through his nose and began counting thatch squares. His journey would be taken wingbeat by wingbeat, because there was no other way to fly. Tillian could stay or leave – Peregrine would figure out later which was worse.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Morning woke Peregrine, sure as if the dawn shook him bodily. He watched the flax-pale column of light standing in the roof smokehole; the day, definitely, had arrived. He stirred shortly before Giala did. Movement flashed across the clay-smeared floor and Tillian sat waiting for him, ready for the moment his feathers were preened and his pants buckled.</p><p>A changed man today – if only changed in his goals – and Peregrine still carried earferrin weight, still caught himself settling his goggles into his mane feathers. This would need bushels more time, he supposed. Changing a person was far less simple than speaking new words or wearing new tools of trade; the goggles still felt like a lie snug around his head, if an overly truthful lie.</p><p>Errand-running was a task Peregrine had taken for granted the last two eldens, thinking it a chore for the young and the idle. Now, readying his mind to fly, he could see the enormity. He would need a gemstone to trade, as well as all the strength he could shunt into his wings; unease murmured that his supply list should have been longer, that he might be forgetting basics. Imagine an old man taking a new trade without even knowing which tools he needed.</p><p>“Then,” Peregrine said, knotting the opening of his pouch around and through itself, “Shall I bring back anything but peridots?”</p><p>“No, light,” Giala said, “that'll be fine.” She passed him a loose-rolled cloth sack – their companion pouch, Peregrine remembered belated. Better to carry a ferrin all day in a pouch than to cramp his arms and risk his dear passenger's life.</p><p>Two grown ferrin could fit inside, said the memories seeping in like smoke – two grown ferrin or half a dozen kittens, dear children squirming and giggling over the simplest delights.</p><p>Tillian tapped his shoulder twice: Peregrine needed to use his eyes. He looked to Giala and found her rifling through storage boxes, tailtip snaking back and forth with concentration.</p><p>“You lost something,” he asked.</p><p>She shot him a magpie grin past her folded wing. “To tell the truth, there's a batch of onion buns here somewhere. The little ones made them for you. They took turns on the onions.”</p><p>Peregrine's favourite travel meal, made by his clan for this day. Even though a wet-eyed ferrin handling cut onions was the second most pitiful sight he had ever known. This change of trade was an event in their minds, a day to prepare a minor feast for, when it was truly just Peregrine taking a few clumsy steps in an old direction.</p><p>“I only got to pull off the paper skins,” Tillian added. “But I helped, too.”</p><p>“Check the black-edged box. Near the top.” Peregrine remembered seeing the glossy fishleather that usually hid baked morsels.</p><p>Giala squawked triumphant, and hurried the precious bundle into Peregrine's hands. “There we are.” A quick nuzzle at his throat and then she stood back to beam at him. “Good winds to you. Take your time, all right?”</p><p>“I'll manage,” he replied. He brushed a wax-styled mane feather away from Giala's face. “Don't worry about a thing.”</p><p>Tillian – the patient weight on his right shoulder – made him sure. His wings would carry himself and his earferrin, too. He had to have enough grit and fire to manage that.</p><p>Peregrine always put eleven steps between himself and a building before Tillian commented on the people inside. He couldn't discern whether that pause was a coincidence, or whether she counted the paces out.</p><p>“She's going to be thinking of you,” Tillian finally said.</p><p>Peregrine smiled. “I've got news, too. Rivers are wet.”</p><p>A light giggle from Tillian, and then she turned to call a greeting. Neighbours held empty shopping baskets and headed in every direction. Town vendors arranged their sales blankets for the day's bartering, lining up rhubarb stalks and earthenware, shifting cages of panicked-flapping pigeons.</p><p>“The Weavers' chakdaws are muttering,” Tillian said. “Loudly, too.”</p><p>Those birds got restless when a good flying wind was passing them by. Peregrine hummed. Hopefully, their good town mage had the sense not to hold a working fellow up all morning.</p><p>Maythwind jerked as Peregrine ducked through the door curtain, looking up quick enough to make his antennae bob against the top of his head. Aemets didn't typically startle – not when they had airsense to show them every approaching motion – but it looked as though Maythwind had a whole lapful of distraction. He sat in a pile of gemstones, all the shapes and hues of crystal the earth had ever made, half of them already holding green sparks in their centers. Tillian was right: Maythwind was stockpiling his plantcasting, spinning so much green life-magic that Peregrine could taste crsipness in the air.</p><p>Maythwind blinked a wide-eyed question, murmuring.</p><p>“Yes, it's us.” Tillian slid down Peregrine's chest and leaped to the dirt floor. “Good morning!”</p><p>“My ointment.” Peregrine raised a brow. “If this is a good time.”</p><p><span class="u">Oh. Oh, yes!</span> Standing, straightening his tunic over his bony insect body, Maythwind started in five different directions before managing to pick one. <span class="u">Every morning, I said. Apologies, I–</span> and then he turned to his shelves, his mouth movements vanishing.</p><p>“He's been distracted lately,” Tillian repeated, “what with that lingering rain in the central land. If more than a few folk are caught by chill, then–”</p><p><span class="u">–Then Verdana help us</span>, Maythwind said, turning back with a jar in hand, <span class="u">I'm only one mage! Maybe it's the High Ones' fortune that we've had such good health in Skyfield of late, but–</span></p><p>More rambling. Peregrine went to the four-footed treatment stool and he lifted a hand for Tillian's benefit; there was no sense repeating this haystack unless an interesting needle turned up in it. Maythwind had already worried and run his mouth enough for a whole insect-tense life. At least he had enough useful qualities to outweigh that: a sure hand with medicines, and enough innate casting strength to share, and the caution that came with anxiety. That made him a mage; that made folk want to respect and obey. Or at least, that was the only reasoning Peregrine cared for.</p><p>Tillian took in every word Maythwind said, holding her ears wide and interested, trilling comments at each break in the chatter. It must have helped that she liked to listen to everything in the land. Peregrine got to work memorizing the wood grain of the wall. Aside from Tillian's voice, he didn't hear anything but ear din and the ointment jar clicking behind him. Maythwind's skinny fingers burrowed into his feathers wrongways, vaguely warm against resting dragonflesh. Hackling his back feathers, Peregrine let his mind wander on distant breezes.</p><p>The therapy wasn't unpleasant, as Maythwind found the right muscles to knead, as the ointment warmed and smeared indistinct. Then arnica bled into the air, the most sharp and scornful petal scent Peregrine had ever known. Tillian once said that she liked the ointment smell, but that the details of the beeswax and hazel balanced it for her nose. And Maythwind must not have minded: betweenkind cared little for scents. How happy for korvikind, being in the middle of the spectrum. Peregrine breathed shallow to avoid the smell.</p><p>“He says, how is your flight?”</p><p>The question took a click to understand; Tillian's words were brief as a wisp of smoke. Peregrine blinked and was back inside a cluttered home, noticing the wall in front of his eyes. “My flight? Fine.”</p><p>“We went back and forth to the mine yesterday,” Tillian added. “Almost all by wings!”</p><p>A conversational pause. Maythwind dug his blunt-spined knuckles into a knot and Peregrine managed not to wince.</p><p>“He says to keep practicing, but don't push yourself too hard.”</p><p>That was easy to tell someone else – Maythwind might not speak so easily if his legs refused to take steps for him. Aemets were born to run like swift wind. and even if their bodies weakened from lack of use, plant goddess Verdana gave them ample fear-strength to run with. Maythwind would never have a comparable worry.</p><p>“And if you'd like to start working on your ears, he can make sure he saves enough casting for it.”</p><p>Peregrine had chosen his path and the consequences that came with it. He didn't have the slightest right bothering a mage who–</p><p>That was miners' thought. He didn't often call it by its name; miners naturally thought like miners, after all. Peregrine hackled tighter. He couldn't say whether he had a right to use those stiff, fiery thoughts anymore, after abandoning his mine and taking a limping step toward ordinary folk. The mentors before Peregrine would never have done this, not when they had enough breath to swing a hammer with. They were deaf and flightless and all the more strong for it.</p><p>Korvi carried the burden of mining because no one else could, not with the muscle and resilience the inner earth demanded. But what did material things matter if a person's family never saw them? Miners walked into their mines and, eventually, didn't return. Time could never be bought back. Peregrine had made the right choice, he was suddenly sure. He had chosen well, leaving his godsforsaken dust pit and bringing Tillian with him, but the next step to take wasn't any clearer than before.</p><p>“Don't fret on it,” he told Maythwind, muttering low enough that his own voice evaded him. “I've got other arrangements to make before anyone fusses at my ears.”</p><p>“He does,” Tillian said, and returned to her polite agreement sounds.</p><p>Eventually, Maythwind seemed satisfied with the worn-sack give of each muscle. He ran palms down Peregrine's back, smoothing wax traces over his feathers, spreading the tingling sensation of healing casting. This time, Maythwind's casting seemed to creep up behind the soreness, stalk close and drown it like nighttime silence: today, Peregrine received darkcasting healing. Choice of element made no difference here – Peregrine had only his natural firecasting, which quarrelled with neither bright nor dark – and switching elements was likely good practice for a young mage.</p><p>A gemstone paid for Maythwind's service, this time a clear quartz sullied with amethyst purple at one end. Tillian repeated the broadest points of Maythwind's chatter: there weren't nearly enough darkcasters in Skyfield to make these amethysts worthwhile; Maythwind would at least get to practice his dark healing on this one; gods' good fortune indeed, Peregrine, that these stones kept turning up so free of flaws or there'd have to be some hard-knuckled bartering. Maythwind finally took the quartz and held it up to the hearth light, refracting fire-white light through the stone's facets. Thought dug wrinkles into his high forehead.</p><p>“You won't need to take many more of these,” Tillian ventured, looking between Peregrine and Maythwind with thoughtful-cocked ears. “We'll make sure to take good casting gems for errand payment.”</p><p>Actually, they would likely take plain meals as messenger payment and use the mine stockpile to pay Maythwind. That only made sense, considering that Peregrine would struggle at the most routine of flights. He leaned on his tail and watched Maythwind conduct a gem trial, the best solution for any trading fuss.</p><p>Maythwind deflated, tension flowing out of his body along with his breath. His forest-wide eyes closed. He was the picture of calm for one tingling moment, before the quartz lit in his hands, light flowing between his fingers. A frown pulled his mouth. He stopped, lifting the quartz to stare at the feeble green spark wavering inside.</p><p><span class="u">It fights harder than a clear stone ought to, but I suppose it'll do</span>. He looked up at Peregrine. <span class="u">Now, I've said it before, but don't overwork those wings. Build up slowly to any flying you hope to do, or you'll stiffen something terrible!</span></p><p>“Fine.” Peregrine knelt for Tillian.</p><p>“And I'm supposed to work any tight-knotted spots for you,” she said, settling into Peregrine's collarbone, “I'll look after it, Maythwind! ... Yes, we'll bring word back. Don't worry, he'll be all right!”</p><p>Once out the door, Peregrine took his eleven steps. Tillian shifted closer to his ear, bolt-quick.</p><p>“He is stockpiling gems,” she said, whiskers prickling Peregrine's temple as she leaned close, “And he has been for a full day now. He was up half the night, he said, charging those stones we saw.”</p><p>A cache like that would come in useful if the entire village fell ill at the exact same moment. Peregrine rolled his gaze to the open sky. “Plantcasting?”</p><p>“Mostly. With a little bright and dark, too.”</p><p>“He's going to worry himself raw, the dear fool.”</p><p>“The neighbours seem drawn a bit tight, today. They haven't said anything, but I think they're sensing the same thing as Maythwind. Is damp air really such a bad sign? I thought it just meant rain.”</p><p>If a person could smell clouds and lightning, damp air meant nothing more dreadful than rain. Aemets sensed airshapes, though, and their bones told them when to run. It seemed to Pergerine that damp air could show aemetkind the shape of trouble, enough to forewarn them of town-razing varieties of sickness. Maythwind might need his pile of plant stones; aemet worries sporadically came true.</p><p>“There's hardly any sickness that hunts our kinds on the wind,” Peregrine said. “But chill dampness does no good for anyone. We need to pay close attention while we're in Valeover. News might be a help to our neighbours, if any great trouble is heading this way.”</p><p>Tillian hummed, and stood taller to look at the fields. The houses were behind them now and cornstalks waved all around, green and top-heavy.</p><p>“Maythwind also hoped your flying goes well,” Tillian said. “He said you've got good muscle condition for a miner your age.”</p><p>Aemets lived fifty years if their plant goddess smiled on them. Many of them liked to believe they knew what age was like.</p><p>“Whenever you're ready to really call yourself a messenger, let him know, all right? He's got plenty of messengers bringing him news, but he said it never hurts to have wings in reserve.”</p><p>It never hurt to have extra anything, particularly for a town like Skyfield with one hundred and fifty aemets and nowhere near so many korvi. Peregrine sighed, guilt cloying inside him as he watched the corn plants sway. The trinity of races had its debts evened in cruel ways: aemetkind gave, and gave, and provided until they could provide no more. Perhaps a demon was taking notice right now, and panicky Maythwind was taking notice of that. There was nothing to say that wasn't the case.</p><p>“I don't know how any of this will turn out,” Peregrine said. “We'll see how my bones fare.”</p><p>A neat-carved field edge appeared in the corn, and then endless, fluttering plains grass. Peregrine looked to the Great Gem, hanging luminous over the central land in the same place Bright and Dark had held it for eons. Judging directions took a lost-wandering moment for Peregrine to remember – he hadn't travelled enough lately, it seemed. He had been making the same quarter-day journey long enough to wear a path into the grass, and now he was finding his sense of direction rotted through with disuse. Annoyance made his firecasting easier to gather, at least; he fanned his own heat outward from his chest.</p><p>“Peridots, and news for Maythwind,” he reminded himself. He pulled the companion pouch from his supplies. “We haven't forgotten anything?”</p><p>Tillian stepped over the shoulder strap, four small feet moving in sequence. “That sounds like everything. Oh,” she said, ears splaying concerned, “Giala was talking about her glue supply. Should we see about some eggs?”</p><p>“She'll hardly have the time to make a batch of glue.”</p><p>“We could help her, though.” Tillian curled into a pouch section, sniffing the thick cotton around her. “I'll keep my ears open for birds on the way back. It wouldn't hurt to bring a few fresh eggs, right? Even if she hasn't asked.”</p><p>Bringing his clan more than he had promised – how pleasant a thought. Peregrine muttered agreement and gathered his will to fly with.<a id="Chapter4" name="Chapter4"></a></p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rose should have insisted that her father rest. She should have put her training to use, enough to recognize that all was not well. She should have administered herbs to him; maybe mint tea to ease his deep breathing; maybe burnet root to strengthen his blood, sickly as his skin tone was that day.</p><p>But he had quirked a smile encouraging, and convinced Rose that he guarded this town as a mage – that included guarding his own health. <em>It's fine</em>, he said.<em> I'll rest in an eightmoment. Go see about some greens for dinner, Rose. Anything you feel like eating.</em></p><p>She never should have left the house that day. She understood how quickly a person's health could crumble, so she should have known better.</p><p>Every resident of Fenwater came to the burial. They made a jagged ring – all the other aemets, with drooping-eared ferrin between them – and the breathing of one hundred people made a jumble of the air.</p><p>Quiet spread, filled with the hushed rustling of trees. Everyone had said their fond parting words and now they looked to Rose.</p><p>“He was an example to us all,” Rose said.</p><p>Her voice shivered, inside her throat and out. She couldn't think of him now without seeing that smoldering brand in her memory, the instant she came through the door curtain and Father sat there sprawled, blank-eyed and open-mouthed, a hand over his heart.</p><p>“Arnon ...” Rose didn't need to look around her. She airsensed the shapes of Fenwater's people, their faces all turned the same way; she felt the stares numerous enough to crush. “He carried on the family ways wonderfully, it was always foremost in his mind. And I'll keep up the traditions he showed me.”</p><p>More force came into the one hundred breathing gusts. Relief, surely. Everyone was glad at the thought that they still had a healer.</p><p>“We wouldn't want anyone else,” came a voice, and warm murmurs followed it.</p><p>After passing moments, with shuffling and backward glances, people began to leave. Rose couldn't move. Shock wound too tightly around her, the fresh memory of Father's last breath and the even fresher thought that Fenwater village supported her so. Of course they stared at Rose, waiting for the words she chose careful. She was Rose Tellig, the last Tellig left alive, the last daughter of a talent-gifted bloodline. For all their words of sympathy, the people of Fenwater already thought she stood in a gloried treetop; they thought she was someone to look up to.</p><p>On this day, alone and unfinished her training, Rose Tellig wasn't just a healer – she was a new mage. If she had tears left, she would have cried.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There were myriad responsibilities now, and Rose was kept busied. People liked her poultices and tea blends best simply because they were made by mage-trained hands. Every ache and weakness in this refugee town stood out in Rose's mind, the whole of Fenwater bristling with worries like thorns. She remembered the herbal blends well enough. She had always found those intuitive. Now she dug under mage supplies for more dried burdock, averting her eyes from the crystals and the training pendulum, making a small, shivering promise to herself: she would try to use these other mage things, eventually. She would need to master her plantcasting, and hone her bright and darkcasting, and perhaps learn other elements, too.</p>
<p>This was the full weight Father had carried. His voice rang in Rose's head, talking about the respected ways of things; she recalled the look of the training floor and the weight of a casting crystal. Someday, she would need to use every tradition-steeped skill that Father had overviewed in brief. The thought sent Rose back to the mortar and pestle, to fill it with simple roots and stems and crush them as thoroughly as she could.</p>
<p>Messengers landed in the street, bringing condolences. The leader Ethan sent a particularly well-worded piece, recited careful by a graceful-moving korvi: he had confidence in Rose's abilities and he wished her well, since a new mage formed the beginning of town's own legend.</p>
<p>Rose bled inside. When the messenger took off, his every wingbeat moved the air of a town without a true leader. She wished, sudden and acrid, that she had asked good Ethan for help; for training; for someone else to take this mage position because she was no maker of legends.</p>
<p>Moments later, Rose was summoned to look at the mint harvest and see if it would suit a cough remedy. Silently, she thanked the gods for sending a distraction.</p>
<p>An eightday passed. The wind stuttered, enough to wake Rose and leave her staring into the teeming nightdark, listening to her own tense pulse and spreading her airsense out into the forest. Breezes showed her pictures, sluicing around shapes to outline every stem and leaf, clinging damp and cool in every crevice. With its movement and its chill, the air frowned a warning.</p>
<p>She would start advising other aemets to stay in, Rose decided the next morning. The main street was already lacking in wandering neighbours, other aemets likely sensing the same trouble Rose did. But she had treated more coughs in that morning than fair odds could explain: a solid decision needed to be made. She would ask her villagers to rest and drink tea today. She would pay attention with every sense and be ready, as ready as anyone ever could be.</p>
<p>She paused in the street when she noticed the wind again. Stirring gusts drew closer in the distance, resolving into a sleek, seven-limbed body: a korvi was approaching. Rose hurried to meet the newcomer, the scarlet-feathered, bead-glittering fellow landing at the far end of the main street. She walked quick, her shoes knocking dirt away in plumes; she put on a smile just in time, as the korvi man noticed her.</p>
<p>“Ah, dear friend,” he cried, making elegant show of bowing, fanning his wing feathers open. “If ever I've been glad to see a face, bet a treeful of apples I'm glad to see yours! Is Arnon about?”</p>
<p>For one awful instant, Rose was hollow.</p>
<p>“Apologies,” she said, “But he's not.”</p>
<p>“Oh, curse the rocks in my head! Of course he's not about, I heard that news! The poor fellow! Forgive me, but I'll hold tight to that and make sure not to forget it again!” The merchant blinked at her, eyes wide as a duskmouse's. “Have we met properly?”</p>
<p>“I don't believe we have.”</p>
<p>She got a grin for that, two broad-flashing rows of the korvi man's teeth. “Then allow me to start over, friend!” He bowed again. “Syril of Reyardine. Ask for the name, whatever you need. I did mean what I said about being glad to see your face but, you understand, I'm glad to meet everyone.”</p>
<p>His wings fanned wider this time, and his bow dipped deeper. Rose couldn't help wishing he would stay. There ought to be more colour in this damp little village, she thought. There ought to be more flame and friends and life.</p>
<p>“Welcome to Fenwater, good Reyardine,” she said. “I'm Rose Tellig.”</p>
<p>Syril looked at her more closely now, as though sifting faces in his memory. “Ah, Arnon's daughter, yes. Frightfully sorry about your loss, Rose! I was just telling a friend of mine that Arnon Renhart, now, there was a fellow the land could use four dozen more of, truly!”</p>
<p>“In any case.” She straightened as though she were strong. “I'm Fenwater's mage now. What is it you need?”</p>
<p>“Oh, there's nothing I need myself! But the wind's got a terrible wet quality to it lately, that's what I'm hearing from every tongue worth listening to. I've got fresh-made tinctures and a bunch of the finest mint soil's ever grown, would you care to trade for them?”</p>
<p>Merchants only travelled as far as Fenwater for a few shrewd moments of temporary business. And responsibilities called Rose with keening voices; she didn't have the time to barter right now, not when she had one hundred aemet villagers to look in on, not with all the training she kept meaning to review.</p>
<p>“Apologies, but I have plenty of my own tinctures. I'd like to see the mint, though.”</p>
<p>Fenwater's forest provided the village with enough mint bushes, spice-potent and tough as taproots – but there might be a lot of tea in the coming days. If everyone was fortunate, a drink mulled with someone else's kindness could be the only cure they needed.</p>
<p>“Yes, of course,” Syril said, waving a forgiving hand. “Now, you'll need to keep a pinch of mercy between your teeth and your cheek, my friend, mint always wilts a trifle on the trip over but–”</p>
<p>“Good Reyardine?”</p>
<p>He looked up from a half-untied cargo pouch. “Ah, yes?”</p>
<p>“Pardon me, but I have some folk I need to look in on before I can do any proper trading.” She would never be able to force her mind to this chattering discussion, not with breeze stirring cool behind house walls. “Would you mind to wait a short while? Fenwater would be glad to provide for you.”</p>
<p>“Now, Rose. Sitting about isn't a fair trade for my time.” Despite his words, Syril's eyes lit sharp: travellers rarely refused a meal. “I suppose I can give you a moment, though, if it'd put a spark in your lantern!”</p>
<p>It would, Rose thought, waving for Syril to accompany her. She appreciated any spark of help he could throw.</p>
<p>By luck, she had some pan bread left over to share. Syril got his meal and – still pouring out praise for her cooking – he spread a blanket full of wares outside Rose's door. There, he sat to wait.</p>
<p>Rose turned back to her duties; she had villagers with coughs, and not enough dried coneflower for all of them. No decent mage let that happen.</p>
<p>She left the village proper, hurrying along the bare line between forest and field. She needed to keep her treatments straight in her head and stand as firm-rooted as her namesake plant. Rose had Tellig blood to help her; thinking her own name trickled strength down the inside of her shell. She combed the wagging plains grass with her eyes. However unsure she was, she could promise the plants to do no wrong and no harm.</p>
<p>Late morning gemlight splashed the forest floor with yellow. Bushes shifted with the breeze, hazel and maple and ironwood, their thousands of leaves waving through air. Rose was following a worn path made by farmers' trips for hay, but none of those folk walked with her right now; she was an aemet alone, vulnerable without a colony around her. She couldn't airsense the block shapes of homes, or gesturing hands paddling the air, only trees and leaves and fauna. Father must have walked this path alone, sure-footed as a deer, likely not worried at all. He adapted to mage duties once, but how? Rose should have asked. This was yet another question she should have learned the answer to.</p>
<p>She found coneflowers to thank – more carefully than necessary – and pried them up with a snapping of root threads. And as she walked back to the village, Rose laid her priorities out in a string. The Irving brothers wouldn't abandon their fields until they were ordered to bed; Belladonna was too old to be flippant about her cough; the names kept coming. There were too many people coincidentally unwell, and gossip had already bled through Fenwater buzzing in corners and making folk glance quick to Rose as she passed them by. But the first person to catch a sickness became the town's weather vane, mage's teachings said. Vilhelm Durant had begun coughing first this dawn, and he needed to be seen first and often, no matter what came. Tight-lipped Vilhelm would reveal a name for the sickness: Rose could make plans from there.</p>
<p>Mundane actions drew her attention as she followed the main road, people breathing and striding, antennae arced back over heads and slicing air. This was Fenwater, traditional with all its aemet-built homes clinging to tree trunks, a familiar array of open door curtains and sprout-green faces. Rose nodded greetings, knowing she would miss this if it withered away. True mage or not, she would try. She headed for where she knew Vilhelm laid.</p>
<p>If she weren't making sure to see otherwise, Rose might think the Saranstas home acted as normal. Merle bustled between storage baskets, and little Clover was four years old and already out of the village broodery, now following her mother and watching the complexities of adult life. Heat poured up from the hearth coals, around a pot full of chutney bubbling to itself. A family was warmly ensconced here.</p>
<p>Merle smiled tight at Rose – like she was simply busy and distracted, nothing more. Her antennae wiggled with her every hurried movement. “I'm glad you're back, dear. I thought of something. Could it be honey taint?”</p>
<p>“It's not honey taint,” grumbled the pile of blankets with Vilhelm in it.</p>
<p>Pausing to frown, Merle chose a spice bottle. “But it could be, couldn't it?”</p>
<p>“Could be. But I don't think it's honey taint.” Vilhelm's voice was gravel; he coughed once to clear it. “That'd be a sickness in the stomach, not the throat, and Rose'd bring goldenrod instead of coneflower. Isn't that right?”</p>
<p>Panic flooded Rose – she would know food contamination if she came across it, she hoped vivid.</p>
<p>“If it were honey taint,” she recited, “folk would become ill within a handful of hours, and they'd have a sour stomach before anything else. I brought coneflower for what's making you cough. That's all.”</p>
<p>Vilhelm cleared his throat, the sound of satisfaction. There was no reason to be satisfied, Rose wanted to blurt, not when his breathing felt like this – air hesitated inside him, like his innards raked at his breath. It could be a simple chill – or it might not be. Worry-strength flowed through Rose, painting her insides a warning colour.</p>
<p>“Well.” Merle clutched fistfuls of her pants to dry her hands. “As long as there's something we can give to cure it. Speaking of herbs, Clover found us some mallow plant, didn't you, dear?”</p>
<p>The child lit with pride, and nodded.</p>
<p>“Sorrel said she'd dig it up later. It's yours if you want it, Rose. We can at least save you the fuss of wading in the marshes!”</p>
<p>Mallow was a fine provision to have. It soothed the throat, and tasted sweet and mild enough for children to enjoy. Gods, children – Rose would need to look after little ones if the sickness kept spreading. Everyone was someone's child, but young ones had barely begun to spend their lifetime and they could need Rose's help to draw another breath. Clover could face the same demon illness that was stalking her father – this beast couldn't be back already, not so soon.</p>
<p>Rose murmured her thanks to Merle's family and promised to return. She hurried out into the street breezes; the air in that home felt close enough to strangle.</p>
<p>She went next to the Irvings' home. The three brothers were fit young men, quick to grin and quicker to throw their weight into their labour. They wouldn't let a slight ill trouble them overmuch; Rose might be fortunate enough to find them working and well.</p>
<p>Dinner simmered inside the Irving home; steam poured upward, dissipating inside the solid walls. Fahras stood over the pot, large and shaggy, half-covered with an apron. He shifted – lifting his head to listen, whiskers slicing damp air – and he ran for the door. Rose reached the doorway at the same time he did, readying her best attempt at a smile as he scrambled to a halt.</p>
<p>“Oh, Rose!” Fahras blinked, sitting on his haunches. He was the only ferrin Rose knew who stood as tall as her mid-thigh, and the only one with farmer's muscle under his fur.</p>
<p>“I won't keep you,” she said. “But how are the trio today?”</p>
<p>“They're– Huh.” His ears worked with thought, shifting positions. “I think they're all right. They say they're all right, at any pace. They're moving a shade slow, but they put some vetchleaf in their morning tea for that. “</p>
<p>Rose could visit the cotton fields and see for herself, perhaps check the Irvings' breathing and constitution. That would be meddling in hard work, though. Plants had the same base needs as aemets, the same appetite for water and nourishment and care.</p>
<p>Fahras's ears sank toward his neck. “Why, is something wrong? Whatever you need, Rose.”</p>
<p>There was no hiding from a ferrin: they understood people. Every fleeting mood crossing Rose's face, every twitch she didn't know she was making, Fahras's kind saw plain as day. She bit her lip.</p>
<p>“If it's not too much trouble.”</p>
<p>“No trouble!” Fahras smiled, a light in his eyes.</p>
<p>She inhaled, mustering herself to ask. Knowledge was to be shared, Father always said.</p>
<p>“I need Breeli's advice. You know where to find her, don't you?”</p>
<p>Fahras nodded. “It's a simple place to find. It'll take me a half hour and crumbs, would you tell the Irvings that I'm gone? I'd fully appreciate it, Rose.”</p>
<p>She carried Fahras's message to his brothers, out among the woody rows of cotton plants with seed pods cracking open white. The Irvings thanked Rose, pausing from their gathering of fallen leaves and petals, rubbing their brush-cut hair back.</p>
<p>“We'll make sure to see you if we start faring any worse,” Cliffton said, turning to glance at Arlin and Sherwin. He moved slow enough to be called weary-looking – but surrounded by well-watered ground and spotlessly healthy cotton leaves, Rose didn't dare comment on the fact that he worked. Reaping season was no time for a farmer to go lax.</p>
<p>The brothers agreed with one another, and smiled pleasant for their mage. As Rose turned to leave – overfull of concerns she couldn't voice – Arlin hurried after her.</p>
<p>“I shared a little casting with a mint shoot earlier,” he said, low and secret. “Didn't stay to watch it run its course, but it should have some good tea leaves on it by now. Pick it if you'd like, Rose. Sounds like we need some more good brewed up around here.”</p>
<p>Walking homeward, holding tender stems of tingling-new mint, Rose cast her airsense out into the forest. Fahras was too long gone to sense; she recalled the bouncing motion of his tailtip among woodbine leaves. Rose let out her breath, feeling it mesh with empty air around her. She hoped not to be alone much longer.</p>
<p>Before she left, Breeli had told the other Fenwater ferrin where she was stowing herself and her half-wild family; she had told Rose, smirking, that it was nothing personal. Just a cranny of the forest a person needed fur on their tail to really appreciate. Dear Breeli was out there somewhere, raising kittens in a comfortable tree cavity and calling out sage advice to them. She would give off an aura fit to light a room with, and combined with memories of Arnon, Breeli might manage to bring wisdom to Fenwater.</p>
<p>Daylight sat in a pebble-size spot on the town chromepiece face. This moment was the colour of goldenrod blooms, earlier than Rose would have guessed but she knew what time-stretching power a person's worries could have. She wouldn't stop worrying until the sound of coughing villagers went stale in her memory. She fussed at the logs securing the chromepiece base, and readied herself to walk past the roiling crowd outside her home.</p>
<p>Because folk had gathered around Syril's blanket, naturally – he chattered, pouring breath-sounds out steady, his fruit-rich appearance flashing through the tree-coloured aemet crowd. He was warm enough to draw everyone toward him.</p>
<p>Rose tugged pleasant expression back onto her face, just in case eyes landed on her. She at least had another korvi friend at this moment, one more messenger and lifeline. Unfortunate that she was holding Syril up, but she couldn't imagine letting him leave uninformed; his service was beyond price. Rose entered the training hall beside her home, and her villagers eyes turned only brief toward her.</p>
<p>This place was a great, rectangular block of air, penned in stale by board walls, only stirred when Rose brought in tincture bottles to store. How lively everyone's hopes had been, giving Arnon so more precious boards than the remnants of the Tellig family could possibly use for their two selves. The newly named Fenwater had wanted a leader, someone too stalwart to fear demons, someone surrounded by children learning the trade. They gave their saviour Arnon more house boards, so he could make all the home he would ever need. Father had supposed – in a thoughtful moment years past, candlelight snagging on the lines around his eyes – that he would use the boards for extra training space until Rose had her children.</p>
<p>Rose wasn't used to life, not like Father was. That felt to be the problem. Her selection of medicine bottles dangled from storage ropes, glinting watchful. She turned bottles to study their ink markings: caricatures of calendula flower and wiche-hazel leaf. She had everything she needed if a neighbour wrenched their back or was bitten by a spider. If only Rose faced something mundane now.</p>
<p>The training hall was perhaps five hanks long on each wall. Although its corners were well filled with living oak trunks, there would surely be enough space. Rose left – she would prod herself to courage later and figure exactly how many sickbeds would fit into that building.</p>
<p>Syril paused from regaling the villagers, long enough to nod to Rose as she passed. Fenwater folk paused also, offering hope-thin smiles. Then they were outside the drawn door curtain, and the house only held Rose and her heaped memories.</p>
<p>She sat by her hearth, whispering prayers of thanks for the flammable things, feeding the coals back to licking, welcoming flames. But she shouldn't have added twigs just yet, her thoughts suddenly scolded her – starting a fire was a chance to practice her meagre firecasting. Skill didn't spring up out of bare earth. There was no saving the twigs now: Rose watched them twist and blacken. Sensing the thick forest of things she had yet to learn, Rose stood and headed for her supplies, only to look at them. Even now, she was wasting time. She likely should have been casting in these preliminary moments but gods help her, she had no idea what on–</p>
<p>Air split around a shape bursting into the room – Rose had hot strength to run with.</p>
<p>“Hey, Rose!”</p>
<p>It was a ferrinshape, ears high, every hair stark in Rose's airsense. And it spoke with Breeli's familiar voice. The instincts fled without Rose; she turned, hand over her drumming heart. “Yes?”</p>
<p>“Jumpy, kit?” Breeli lolloped closer, tipping her head. “I'd have yelled.”</p>
<p>“Apologies, I didn't think you'd be here so soon.”</p>
<p>Rose knelt, and didn't notice her own palm spread in offering until Breeli took it between warm little hands. The time since meeting this friend felt valley-wide, and so, it seemed, Rose was reintroducing herself. Breeli smiled toothy at her, with the same lake-depth gaze as ever.</p>
<p>“Start paying some mind or you'll misplace your head! I missed you. Ambri's tail, it feels like it's been a fouryear!”</p>
<p>A smile spread through Rose. “How are your kittens?”</p>
<p>“Thunder in thimbles!” Breeli crowed a laugh and bounded off to choose a sitting cushion. Her sarong flapped loose, tied with one fist-clumsy knot; that she had put clothing on at all was a nicety. “They're almost ready to choose their preferred names and am I ever glad, it'll be half as many names to yell to the whole forest! I should bring them by more often. Fenwater's short a few climbing trees for their liking, though.” She sat on her haunches long enough to wave both hands. “I'm not here to yammer about me! Fahras said you need my ear to talk into?”</p>
<p>Just like that, Rose's smile withered inside her. She joined Breeli in the sitting space around the hearth, picking at her left thumbnails.</p>
<p>“I just need your advice. You always know how to face things.”</p>
<p>Turning circles on the cushion, Breeli shot her a frown. “Fahras says Arnon's gone.”</p>
<p>The memory of finding Father stood out garish in Rose's mind, that terrible feeling of understanding. Her lips pressed.</p>
<p>“Ten days ago. It happened so fast ... I think it was his heart.”</p>
<p>Breeli murmured, her ears low. “Verdana watch him.”</p>
<p>“It's–” Rose was out of place standing. She huddled onto a cushion, beside Breeli. “I'm not a mage yet.”</p>
<p>“Yes, you are.”</p>
<p>“Not enough of one. I don't know what to do yet. How am I meant to know when there's no one here to ask?” Disorder needled Rose's airsense. She smoothed a loose hair back toward her hair ties; that helped but she still itched with awareness, her flesh laid wrinkled on her bones. “I don't– Something's going to happen, and I don't know what to do.”</p>
<p>“Something?” Breeli's ears folded. “You've got to have an idea.”</p>
<p>Rose dug her thumbnails into one another. Quiet flooded around them; Breeli's gaze bored in relentless and Rose didn't need to look at her to feel it.</p>
<p>“I know there are twenty villagers sick. All with the same throat trouble, all in the last fourhour.”</p>
<p>“Twenty? That's enough to worry, all right.”</p>
<p>Twenty desperately sick people would be more than a struggle for a lone healer – one like Rose, anypace. She had lived for fourteen years and only spent a handful of those years studying careful. She hadn't grown enough under Father's guidance; she should have taught plantcasting lessons to Fenwater kin, or taken lessons herself, whichever schooling made the difference between mageling and mage.</p>
<p>“Do you remember,” she asked Breeli, “how the demon first shows itself? I know what the breathing rasp sounds like. But is there anything else?”</p>
<p>Breeli stared. “I was out hunting grasshoppers one day and I just tripped across Arnon, up to his ears in dying folk. Banish me if I know the first fussy details of it.”</p>
<p>And Breeli likely had nothing else to say about that village – the place Rose was born, the community where the Tellig family had lived and almost entirely died. No one talked about that place. A handful of its villagers lived, but they were Fenwater villagers now: the demon stole aemets' homes and pasts as often as it stole lives.</p>
<p>Rose forced her hands apart. She would draw blood if she kept picking.</p>
<p>“The sick folk here tell me their strength is low today, and most of them are coughing. Everything seemed as usual last night, it– What if the demon is back? What if I need to call exodus, I can't do this myself, Breeli.”</p>
<p>“Fish feathers.” She hopped closer, glaring sure, palms suddenly warm on Rose's calf. “You had your ears open when Arnon told you things, didn't you? He was smart enough to pass for a blood Tellig, not a married-in. You had good soil to grow in, kit, ask anybody in Fenwater and they'll say they want the Tellig daughter guiding them.”</p>
<p>They had no choice. Arnon had held onto his wife's magecrafting legacy, tucked the Tellig name close to his chest while Telligs themselves breathed their last, and he found himself with one daughter left to pass the legacy to. Only one child. One seed, alone in the disaster's bare-torn wake. Arnon must have planned to take on more magelings – he had mentioned it lightly in the clear morning, on the day before Rose noticed his pallor.</p>
<p>“I'll try,” Rose said. She laid her hand over Breeli's, pressing ferrin clawpoints gentle against her skin. “Verdana help me, I'll do what I can.”</p>
<p>“Of course you will. And you've got, what, eighteen ferrin here for the calling? More than that if I chew my kits into shape. You learned from the best, Rose, don't trade yourself short.”</p>
<p>Rose had learned how to treat the minor troubles the demon caused, the weakness and coughing that leeched a person's strength away. She remembered that much from the old town; she could brew tea and cool neighbours' brows. Then she could pour tea for her own gummy throat, and mop a cool path across her own clammy neck, and try again to heft a water pail. After that, the shadows took her memories; Rose remembered only heat, confusion and plantcasting's clean flare in the dark, and Father's face, and the tattered beginnings of a new village when she awoke. Breeli could guide her through some of that airless time – only some of it.</p>
<p>A half-burned husk of log crumbled into coals. Sparks winged up hot, melting away into the space between treetops.</p>
<p>“I should have found more korvi,” Rose said, shaking her head. “Another trip and I could have found dragonkind friends to help us.”</p>
<p>Settling against Rose's side, Breeli said, “I was wondering about that glittery fellow. Is he there to prop your walls up or what?”</p>
<p>“I don't mean to hold the good Reyardine up. He doesn't seem as though he'd mind running an errand.” Here was another worry on top of Rose's heap: she had to make another round of the village and ask Syril for whatever she needed to ask of him. She made herself meet Breeli's gaze. “I should check on Vilhelm again. Would you come with me?”</p>
<p>“No trouble. Clover must be growing like a vine, how is the dear thing?”</p>
<p>“Doing fine. She'll be glad to see you.” That mundane thought was all Rose needed – she had the strength to get to her feet. She took a careful breath to speak with. “At least I'm sure I know the sound of the demon's grip. And Father said everyone listens to an exodus call if they've got a drop of sense.”</p>
<p>Her instincts roiled at the thought. Rose wanted to run but she only walked, with Breeli following smooth by her side.</p>
<p>“Do what you have to, kit.”</p>
<p>Rose's nerves honed her airsense to a point now; she could feel every spoken word gusting on villagers' breath, every mote of air in the forest. She sensed Vilhelm's rough-splintering hack for a full, awful moment before entering the Saranstas home.</p>
<p>Merle smiled, watching Breeli butt friendly against Clover. Then she cleared her own sticky throat, and coaxed Vilhelm to roll over and face Rose; his eyes were glazed now, moving thick as syrup. Here was the throat-shape Rose had hoped never to sense again – an airway sagging in on itself, the first damp-bowing traces of weakness. Her heart sped, drowning out the raking sound of Vilhelm's breath.</p>
<p>“I suppose it wasn't the honey,” Merle murmured. Clover slipped back to her mother's side and stifled a gusting cough in her hand.</p>
<p>A ferrin hand laid on Rose's knee; Breeli stared up at her, steady, sturdy against the ground.</p>
<p>The strangest part was how easily Rose's words came. This was no vague possibility, no web of maybes. This was a sick person and his sickening family, whom Rose Tellig had to help. She scraped for words.</p>
<p>“It's ... It's nothing he ate. This is worse, I'm afraid.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rose first told Chiko, the only korvi who lingered in Fenwater on any regular basis. He dug gardens and latrines to earn his keep, and said once that his favourite work let him set his feet against the earth and do good, honest hauling. No one paid mind to that comment when asking him to fly; Chiko never complained.</p><p>He didn't complain this time, either, only clasped Rose's hands and promised all the speed he could muster. He winged off toward Greenway village, flapping hard, looking like a startled finch sailing away tiny over the trees. Once Chiko's wingbeats melded with the sky currents, Rose returned home, her insides still pinched tight with realization.</p><p>“Ah, strike a spark and you never can tell where it'll catch,” Syril called as she approached. He was layering his goods back into a cargo pouch, grinning up through his breeze-swaying mane feathers. “But your villagers cleaned me out of the mint and tinctures. A thousand sorries if you had those in mind, Rose!”</p><p>Maybe the village truly did sense the same danger Rose did. They would accept her bolstering teas and possibly add a dose of their own tinctures: a little alcohol calmed the nerves.</p><p>“It's fine, good Reyardine. But may I ask you for an errand?”</p><p>“That's one of many services I offer, friend! My hands are safe to put things in, and I dare say you'd have a hard time finding swifter wings on person or beast!”</p><p>Rose held her own hands tight. “Then, would you go to Opens and speak to their leader for me? Ethen needs to know that I'm calling exodus.”</p><p>“Exodus?!” Feathers rose on his back, their shafts spaced as wide as his spread hands. “Oh, skies, Rose, if you're the only–”</p><p>“Please be ready to leave in a moment,” she forced out, her mouth wood-stiff. “I've got a payment for you, for your trouble. But you'll need to fly with all the fire you've got, good Reyardine.”</p><p>If Syril noticed the quaver in her voice, he was kind enough not to comment. He stared with slate-wide eyes, and he nodded.</p><p>Rose thanked him. And then went to her storage baskets, hurrying to plunge her hands in, seeking a payment of anything at all.</p><p>Aemetkind ran from danger. Plant goddess Verdana built her children with deft senses and crickets' strong legs, so they could sense the wind and follow it to safety. Fear strummed Rose's tendons now – she craved escape like everyone else, but mages never ran when the demon struck. They stood calm and sage. They braced to meet the threat, even if they didn't know how.</p><p>As Fenwater village began its exodus, the air felt peculiar – not just from the churning breezes of one hundred people hurrying about, but from a lurid sense of fate, the skin-tingling awareness of a lightning strike an instant away. Rose searched useless through her dry herb supplies, airsensing every aemet footstep stirring dust outside. The shock of the exodus warning was gone; everyone's worry settled now into resolve. They moved in in blade-mouthed silence, with ferrin lolloping alongside to keep watch.</p><p>Released dogs barked in the distance, then crashed deeper into the forest; they might still ward off predators, if Fenwater had so much luck. There was no more shuffling from the horse stable, or muttering worry from chakdaw lofts, because those creatures gladly took their freedom in the plains grass. Only a few pigeons were kept, huddled in their locked crates. Rose had always thought pigeons to be simple-minded but now, the wary gleam in their eyes said otherwise.</p><p>In the next long moments, Rose checked each of her aemet kin. She turned her senses inward to the wet rhythm of breathing, focusing, letting her visceral wisdom decide. Father hadn't said it in as many words but this was the crucial time, choosing who to order away and who to hold back. Rose chose everyone's fate, now. She had to put faith in her own senses, however queasy the thought felt, swinging loose on a tether.</p><p>She hadn't called the exodus a moment too soon: in all of Fenwater, twenty-eight people breathed thickly. The demon's claws were already at their throats and running would bring a weak, exhausted death, possibly a desperate one alone in the fields. That knowledge ran chill down Rose's shell as she shook her head for each one. They all stared terror back – but they nodded for her, and told their neighbours quietly goodbye.</p><p>Rose wished the gods' good fortune on the rest of her villagers, in a voice small enough not to break. Families left, making use of their precious time – half of them strung along the forest's south edge toward Greenway, and half broke through the western grass toward Opens. They ran with a gait water-smooth, allowing their antennae little movement, keeping their airsense crisp enough to rely on. They carried drinking water tied against their lower backs and enough mementos to fill their pockets, and they kept sight of their loved ones; nothing more was important. Grass swallowed the fleeing Fenwater villagers, their movement blending away into the grass stalks and wind.</p><p>Twenty-eight names rang in Rose's ears, in time with her heartbeat. Their voices filled the training hall – which was a sickhouse now – with cuttings of conversation. Linens flapped and bed-shaped stacks formed. Rose showed the anxiously milling ferrin where to place the dry corn supply, and she turned to the woodpile – there wouldn't be time for gathering fallen twigs. Other, better mages might have had magelings to spare for that. Rose hesitated at the thought of her bundle of silver-faceted coal, reserved just in case. She thought of smoke muddying the air and she shoved the idea away. Fire god forgive them, but there would be no coal in Rose's sick house; they needed as much of Verdana's blessing as possible.</p><p>She had scarcely thought that when Fahras approached, rolling a rough-textured weight through the breeze. He beamed at Rose, over his wheel-shaped chunk of chestnut wood, and motioned to the fifteen other ferrin working in the street – hauling wood out of abandoned homes, pulling branches from hearths and woodpiles. The village was Rose's to draw from now. Homes without people weren't homes at all, just houses full of objects; she had to remember that. Dim relief flooded her as she pointed to a spot and watched a woodpile grow.</p><p>Within a moment, a pile as high as her hip was nestled against the sickhouse's outside wall. The Irving brothers discussed dry cotton sticks, and those soon stood piled for Rose's use, too.</p><p>Some villages had to burn house boards toward the end – goddess forgive them for even thinking it, trees forgive them. Rose remembered clattering sounds jarring through her sleep, remembered panic at finding her airway choked narrow, and heard voices and dry wood's burning crackle. If Fenwater needed to consume its own homes, she supposed, she could use her own south-facing wall. Its knots would burn slow. But that terrible possibility could wait.</p><p>The Fenwater ferrin ran more errands in the village, more trifling movements like stitches forming a finished blanket. Every home was picked over for supplies – bedsheets and herb leaves and salt – and all of it piled inside the sickhouse walls. Rose had every physic she could ask for and get. She called the ferrin before her.</p><p>“My friends,” she said, her voice a weak buzzing inside her body; she was too numb to be scared anymore. “Thank you for everything.”</p><p>Eighteen sets of ears fell. These folk would work endlessly as ants if Rose asked them to – they would do that for anyone, which was exactly why they needed to be told to leave Fenwater. Breeli and her mate would return with their five kittens soon, and Fahras was off filling water tubs; that modest crowd would be enough. Every other ferrin Fenwater sat gathered before Rose now, whiskers quivering, their attention soaking the air.</p><p>“Truly,” Rose added, “Thank you. But you need to catch up to your families.”</p><p>“Not as much as you need help,” Miko replied, staring a question. She looked wrong without the Almast family's ankles around her; she looked too small.</p><p>Rose picked at a thumbnail, just once, controlled. “I've got plenty of hands here, with Breeli and Fahras and everyone. It's more important that you follow your families, since they'll need your help soon. Other mages will need you. Nearly sixty of our kin ran–”</p><p>The numbers loomed in her mind; the panic flooded. The demon sickness might catch all sixty of them, ruthless and thorough. The last words Rose heard from her villagers could be the goodbyes fresh in her memory.</p><p>“–And they'll need to be cared for,” she said, “so please, go after them. Your friends all told you where they were running to, didn't they?”</p><p>Orrelin canted his head. “Will you be all right, though?” He never let the Trey family refuse his help.</p><p>“Of course. Arnon knew how to take care of this.” If only he had taught Rose. She smiled hopeful; the motion felt mildewed and slick. “Hurry, all right? Gods watch you.”</p><p>The ferrin hesitated, watching, before they turned away. They didn't believe her. They must have seen through her acting or smelled her fear, and dispersed so slow because their hearts weighed them down.</p><p>But they still obeyed. They tied meals inside kerchiefs and, with ears mournfully low, they bolted away after their aemet loved ones. Rose watched black and white tailtips bounce away, and lost track of those, too, in the fields.</p><p>She stood, drawn tight everywhere she had yanked words out of herself. People stirred in the sickhouse behind her. Flecks of Breeli's brass voice carried on the wind. Rose stared out at the field and turned back toward the tree-shaded streets; she was scuttling under endless sky, surrounded by trees taller than she would ever be.</p><p>Twenty-eight aemets remained, all of whom would smother in the demon's grip if they didn't receive enough care. Rose hoped fervent that her well of strength would last. And she hoped that other villages' mages would find enough strength to help Fenwater: aemet ancestors had learned that more folk lived when they scattered and fled, when they met enough plantcasting mages. Exodus rent a village apart, in the hope that its pieces might be cared for by neighbours. Rose couldn't know what Father went through when he had too many friends to heal. She could guess how much healing there would be, how much heartache and pouring out of strength – but only guess. So many answers lost when one person's heart failed to beat.</p><p>Breeli came out of the sick house, then, trotting straight as bee flight to sit at Rose's feet. Rose wondered if ferrin could sense feelings as particular as a need for company; she put aside her thought-wracked questions and watched Breeli pull a sparse-leafed sprig from her mouth.</p><p>“What's this in commontongue? Niro says it's good when folk are sick, he just can't grab hold of its name.”</p><p>Wild ferrin – like Breeli's dear mate had been and still mostly was – had strong-built instincts and a knack for choosing plants. The shame was that they couldn't explain what they knew, not with their simple, eager sign language and newly learned words. Rose stooped to see the plant's leaves better.</p><p>“That's alfalfa. It's best used to coax a fussy appetite. Thank him, though.” The thought of eating made Rose quiver inside; swallowing food would be the least of the villagers' worries.</p><p>“That's fine.” Breeli ate the alfalfa sprig, and stared her concern. “Everyone's off on their way, then?”</p><p>“I shouldn't have sent so many of them.”</p><p>Taking Rose's side as they walked, Breeli muttered, “I'll say. They could have helped you, not that the firewood pile isn't a masterpiece.”</p><p>“I mean I shouldn't have sent away so many aemetkind. I should be looking after them.”</p><p>“More of them?!” Breeli glared. “Do you remember what happens when the mage has too many?”</p><p>Rose looked away at the dirt. She didn't remember what happened, not the way Breeli could see it all happening behind her eyes. “What I mean is, I should be able to care for more folk if they need me.”</p><p>“Do you know how many Arnon cared for, at the worst point?” Breeli's face softened as her voice did; her mouth twisted like this memory turned sour. “Thirty-three. He struggled like a drowning rat with thirty-three. Hardly more than you've got here, and Arnon had a way with healing like he'd learned from the goddess herself. There's only so much time to trade around, you know, when everybody's so damned sick. You've got plenty cut out for you, don't you dare wish for any more.”</p><p>How selfish, wanting to do more; Rose throbbed guilty inside. She nodded.</p><p>“But I shouldn't have to tell you that, kit. You've got some good between your ears. As long as we get some helping hands flying in, you'll be fine. We'll see you through until then.” Breeli jerked her head in invitation, dropping to four feet to patter quicker. “Before I forget, come have a look. We've shuffled the place around a little. I moved your mage things into your house, the better to make room for everyone in the sick house. You can tell me if I've made mud out of it all.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“Whatever you need,” Breeli replied. She looked back past her own orange-clothed backside, grinning. “And there'll be more you need! Count on it!”</p><p>Rose would need as many deft hands as the land could provide her. She would need healers, magelings or anyone with a scrap of skill. She couldn't remember, suddenly, whether she'd asked Chiko and Syril to recruit help, or even to return themselves for more courier work – but Rose must have asked them that. No one half trained would make such a gaping mistake. A chill unfurled inside her now, the sensation of forgetting something she couldn't afford to go without.</p><p>For one pleading moment, while watching the black-bouncing tip of Breeli's tail brush, Rose put her plantcasting-centered hands over her heart and prayed. Gods watch Rose and those in her care; High Ones forgive her for everything.</p><p>Following Breeli through the Tellig house door, Rose ran plant names through her thoughts again, sifting everything that might aid the body's natural restoration. Not knowing in the first place was wretched enough; Rose couldn't forget simply because of nerves. She was only beginning to review the uses of mint when Fahras flashed into the sick house behind her.</p><p>“Rose,” he said, “I gathered the cotton bolls for you. But I can't find any thyme.”</p><p>“Thyme?” She didn't recall asking for any. “Why?”</p><p>His ears fell limp. “Because Belladonna said pigeon broth with plenty of thyme is good for what ails, and Cliffton's gone off to the coop for her. I'm sorry. I told them what you said.”</p><p>Rose stifled the urge to run after them both and chide them hard. She had a precious few hours where Fenwater villagers could still lend their hands; Rose needed all the help she could get, every shining drop. Her thumbs found each other and began to pick.</p><p>“That's fine. A small walk shouldn't hurt Cliffton, so long as he isn't coughing badly. And I can put herbs in broth just as well as anywhere else.” She hoped she wouldn't be asked to break the pigeon's neck – thinking about it made her stomach turn over.</p><p>“Oh, herbs.” Fahras said it like he had managed to forget about plants entirely. “All right. I'll just get water, then.”</p><p>“Bring the river, while you're at it,” Breeli said.</p><p>“If you'd like.” Fahras looked between the two of them, his ears cocked wry. “You mean a few more buckets, right?”</p><p>Most ferrin couldn't lift a full pail of water, not when electric goddess Ambri shaped her children so small. But Fahras likely improved the cotton harvests by half, diligent as he was in his watering work. Rose saw him in the streets occasionally, carrying his sloshing pail back from the river, drawing damp-dark paths up and down the Irvings' field: he was a gift in stout wrapping.</p><p>“Just fill a few big boiling pails,” Rose said, “If you would?”</p><p>He nodded and was gone.</p><p>“So that's the food, the water, the beds, and a whole mess of plants,” Breeli said, climbing halfway into a storage box. “Look at this stuff, will you? There's got to be something else you need.”</p><p>“Healing stones?” The idea sprang to Rose, a blunt-sudden memory of Father with a blinding quartz stone in his hand. “I might need bright and dark healing stones later. For if anyone is ... is suffering.”</p><p>“Yeah, there's a bag of them over there.” Breeli pointed, not bothering to remove her head from the box. “I can't tell their elements apart from a horse pie, but I know they're stones with a charge of something in 'em.”</p><p>A cursory check – touching each stone and making contact with its cached magic – showed Rose a supply of four brightcasting stones and five darkcasting, all aptly charged. More than enough for pain relief. It was precious little balm on her worry; maybe she wasn't forgetting anything, and maybe there was nothing more to be done. She couldn't take that chance. She knelt by Breeli's side, to sort herbs yet again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Tillian was small – when she was Tillian Sri and she hadn't picked which half to be called by – she used to listen for the rustle-flap of korvi wings. She ran outside whenever she heard them, full of an excitement too sparkling to stifle. Peregrine and Giala thought she was just glad to see familiar folk returning: they had smiled two completely different smiles at her. Mama Kelria told her once, leaping down from Peregrine's tree-tall grasp, that Tillian Sri was shaping up to be the best friend a person could ever want. That moment felt right, a polished piece of truth to hang alongside her family pendant.</p><p>Flight still sounded special, even now. Tillian could spend plenty more days being carried by Peregrine, and she would still want to hear the wooshing wind and the shuffle of feathers. She listened to every wingbeat slapping against the air; the sounds commanded her to pay attention, to stay sharp. Maybe feathers reminded her of a delivery – because flight meant someone was arriving with a message, even if that message was just <em>hello</em>. If Tillian heard a messenger, her job would be to run out and meet them, or to at least tell Peregrine about the newcomer. That made sense. But anyone could receive a message. That didn't need Tillian and Tillian alone; that didn't answer the question <em>why</em>.</p><p>Why, for instance, was she listening now, when there was nothing but wind to hear and Peregrine knew the sky better than she ever would? Maybe because Peregrine's matters were more interesting than the dusty-smelling pouch walls or the blurry, distant ground? No, there was more than that. Tillian listened because ferrinkind helped people. Peregrine needed her help. He had even told her so with grumbled words.</p><p>She raised her ears higher against the wind's drag, focusing past the round, rushing sound of air, until she found the rhythms of muscle and flight quills. Maybe Tillian listened for wings because she couldn't take the chance that they didn't belong to Peregrine.</p><p>It didn't really matter, she decided. She was an earferrin – so why ask why she listened? She just did. Rain fell, plants grew, and Tillian heard everything.</p><p>She turned a circle in the companion pouch and it still wasn't as comfortable as being held. Tillian swung in her fabric pendulum and suddenly, Peregrine's long-boned hands settled around her; she felt the sky's wind easing against her eartips. Peregrine's wingbeats faltered now, like the heat in his chest was scorching the rhythm away. This part of flying ruined all the rest. Peregrine hated to fail so much that Tillian could nearly smell it. The wind's whistle dropped in pitch, a limp and fading kind of music; the drag against her ears was gone; the blurry fields must have approached them. Tillian held her worry-thrumming body still. The best help she could give was to do nothing at all.</p><p>It felt like hours passed, held tight to Peregrine's fire-glowing chest, but she and him finally fell to earth. Tillian's stomach drifted in her throat like dandelion seeds, and she caught a glimpse of grass stalks focused into being, and Peregrine jerked to a stop.</p><p>She squirmed to face him right away, leaping off his palms and onto his shoulder, sitting on feathers and pouch strap and flight-hot skin. Unfortunate as this was, Tillian at least had her duty back; she couldn't help anyone without a duty. She squinted into the field-gold distance.</p><p>“Almost there,” Peregrine said in a bitter wheeze. “Valeover's still an hour's walk.”</p><p>He couldn't mean an entire hour. Fresh smoke scent clung to the breeze, with roast corn and people's moods twined into it. Peregrine couldn't smell all of that, but he knew he was being dour with his guesses – he had to know. Tillian hummed, too low a sound for Peregrine to hear.</p><p>“All right,” she said. “You did well for a first day of messenger's flight!” She focused her hearing outward, past Peregrine's rough breathing. “I can't hear water, but I smell it.”</p><p>Peregrine grunted agreement. He straightened and began to walk, his swaying motion as familiar as Tillian's own heartbeat. Grass crunched a harmony underfoot. “It's a pond to the north. Saw it from the sky.” He blew smoke through his teeth; charcoal scent smeared the air, and the leather skin of his chest cooled to lukewarm. “Shall we stop?”</p><p>Tillian didn't want a drink of water right now, not even freshly scooped water. She wanted something and didn't know what – maybe she wanted this trip to be complete, or to feel the floating-huge pride sensation of a job fully done. Peregrine strained so hard when he was in the middle of things.</p><p>“No, thank you.” Tillian settled into the groove of Peregrine's collarbone. People said that great Fyrian made his korvi children with a spot for their ferrin friends to lay, like a nest carved right into living guardians – and it felt accurate enough to be true. “Well, then,” she tried, “You never answered me why you're going to be a messenger.”</p><p>“Because I decided to be.”</p><p>Tillian's ears fell – he hadn't even thought about that. “I mean actually why. You're good at mining, you've done so much practice.”</p><p>Peregrine stared into the distance, eyes flinty. Wind whistled in the endless grass.</p><p>“It's something you'll never need to worry about.” He glanced over his shoulder, like the dratted plains couldn't keep a secret. “But korvi waste as they get old, usually the labourers and other folk who don't have a daily need for flight. It's a disgrace to watch. Perfectly good wings shrivelling on the vine ... I'm not going to be like that.”</p><p>That was a statement tall with pride, just like Peregrine. Miners moved plenty, though. Peregrine had shoulders like a sure cliffside, and legs and tail as tough as rope; he picked Tillian up with whim's ease and he never let himself be anything but capable. Peregrine's kind must not have cared about things like that if they couldn't fly. Tillian supposed she would miss the sky, too, if she had ever been part of something that big.</p><p>She forced her ears higher; she was thinking, but she still had to listen. Peregrine was surrounded by wind; grass; larks singing; crunching stems underfoot. Normal things. There was also quiet packed between the two of them. She looked to Peregrine's set mouth.</p><p>“Really,” she said, “you're doing better than a lot of people would.”</p><p>“Because a lot of people misplace their good sense.” He paused, watching the grass tops. “Truly, though ... I suppose I want to fly places like I used to, whenever the idea strikes. As I did when I was young.”</p><p>He made himself sound eons old. Long ago, when the land was new, Peregrine of Ruelle travelled whenever he pleased.</p><p>“If you could work any trade,” Peregrine said, “which would you choose?”</p><p>“If I–”</p><p>Tillian sat straighter, ears splaying: she had never wondered this before and the question hit her like cool water. What would Tillian the earferrin be if she weren't an earferrin? Arts leaped to mind – skills like Giala's sculpting and sketching and music. She could learn those simply enough. But no, Peregrine had said <span class="u">any</span> trade, not just the ones Tillian happened to live alongside. She thought like a korvi, flying over all the possibilities, imagining every skill people had ever learned. If she had lived differently enough, maybe Tillian Sri would tell folk to call her Sri.</p><p>“I'd help people, whatever I did.” The riddle never said she couldn't help Peregrine. Maybe, she thought with rich-flashing realization, she could help Peregrine as well as everyone else they passed by. “Maybe I'd just see what the town mage needed and help them.”</p><p>Peregrine fixed one wood-dark eye on her. “A mage who'd teach you properly, I should hope.”</p><p>“Mages are always teaching, if you're paying attention. I could learn to charge stones, maybe.” A sound tugged sudden at Tillian's hearing – she looked out over the fields. “<span class="u">Hruck-hruck</span>, that's an earthbird, isn't it? Watch your feet.”</p><p>Peregrine opened his wings a fraction for balance, his muscles shifting under Tillian's tail. There had been word once of a korvi who broke his ankle stepping in an earthbird burrow and that was exactly the sort of trouble an attentive friend could avert. If Peregrine was safer, happier, more of <span class="u">something</span>, then Tillian was filling her role.</p><p>“You'd be a fine mageling,” he muttered, watching the ground.</p><p>She smiled. Strange, though: it didn't feel happy. She couldn't imagine how a mageling would feel in that moment, listening in the prairie air.</p><p>Tillian watched the blurry distance until box-shaped buildings formed. Afternoon brightcasting shone over the land, rich and yellow. Knifegrass around them turned to neat-groomed crops, and Peregrine's footsteps passed from crunching grass to muted dirt road.</p><p>Valeover town smelled like betweenkind and wood dust and horse droppings and fresh-ripped mint, with sour whiffs of town garbage. It bustled more than usual – at least, it seemed so when Tillian held everything up against her memories. All around them, aemets walked brisk, their antennae making up a textured field of grass. Ferrin darted around their neighbours' hoof-shaped shoes. Tension lined so many faces, hundreds of fleeting expressions adding up to a wary tingle in Tillian's insides.</p><p>“I think something's wrong here,” she murmured against Peregrine's temple.</p><p>“There ought to be more of a mix in Valeover,” Peregrine said low, stepping to one side of the crowd's flow. “Their town was a full third korvikind, last I knew it, but there's hardly a feather to be seen. Try to overhear some news.”</p><p>Her ears were already high, her attention on the green-skinned sound swirling around them. Tillian focused and the crowd mumbling split into shards, into voices:</p><p>“–I can spare the quartz at least. They'll need–”</p><p>“–hope Johen isn't caught by it–”</p><p>“–haven't you heard? Just this morning–”</p><p>“–at a time like this, Verdana help them–”</p><p>It had to be one great, terrible event worrying everyone, a shadow like a diving falcon. Electricasting squirmed inside Tillian, ready to protect her; she held it back from soaking into her fur. She looked to Peregrine.</p><p>“Something bad happened earlier today, I think people are getting sick? Everybody's talking about it.”</p><p>Peregrine grunted. “I guessed as much.”</p><p>“Should we find the mage?”</p><p>“If they're gossiping so freely, the mage will be busy enough keeping the peace.” He paused; thought tugged grim around his mouth. “We need broader news. Keep your eyes sharp for korvi.”</p><p>Because when korvi all vanished from a town, it meant they had bad news to carry around. Tillian shifted closer to Peregrine's neck, finding him motion-warm and solid.</p><p>He slipped back into the crowd's flow, strides steady and careful, shoulders knitted tense. Ears weren't much good when the two of them needed to look, so Tillian turned, curling her tail across Peregrine's throat for balance, craning to see past his glossy, rust-orange wings. Aemets always left their korvi friends a bubble of open air in crowds – it was nice of them, Tillian thought, to give a sky creature enough space for their peace of mind – but there was nothing to see beyond the crowd's edge. Antennae swayed around them; someone led a dog by its rope collar; gesturing hands were everywhere.</p><p>Tillian couldn't place the tug at her attention until she saw it again: korvi horns, two snake-shaped curves held tall above all the other heads. Crimson skin blazed through the crowd, covered in swaying beads that snatched gemlight.</p><p>She tapped Peregrine twice. “Behind you, here comes somebody. He's korvi.”</p><p>Peregrine turned, his eyes hunting. He stopped. “Burn it, of all the luck. I traded with that fellow once.”</p><p>He only spat like that when he didn't think much of a person, usually when they used a lot of words to say nothing in particular. Tillian turned the right way around, readying herself to smile for the both of them.</p><p>The red korvi headed straight for them, a grin spreading over his snout like he had spotted a bargain across a bazaar. As he danced out of the way of passers-by, he called, “Good fellow! Why, if this isn't a familiar draught in my cup, how are you, friend?”</p><p>He spoke in excited tenor. Peregrine could catch the higher tones of a voice like that – or, rather, he could catch it if he was listening. He frowned right now, so he was likely deaf as a stone.</p><p>Tillian tilted her head at the friendly stranger. Here was her work, tangled up in front of her. “Good day! I'm Tillian Sri, call me Tillian. Can I help you?”</p><p>“I certainly do hope so!” He flashed merry teeth. “You two are miner and earferrin, if my memory's worth a whit? I never forget a face!”</p><p>“He's Peregrine of Ruelle, head of Redessence Clan.” Tillian canted her head farther. “Glad to meet you ...?”</p><p>“Ah! Forgive me.” The red korvi offered a palm, his wings fanning by a grand fraction, his grin twinkling in his eyes. “Syril of Reyardine. Ask for the name, whatever you need! My, my, good Ruelle, if it hasn't been a stone's age since we met! Time does fly away with us!”</p><p>“Um.” Tillian shifted on her feet as she took Syril's palm, noting his lizardskin-and-flax-oil scent. He certainly tied his thoughts up with plenty of phrases. “Syril of Reyardine is glad to see you.”</p><p>“Likewise,” Peregrine muttered.</p><p>“Oh, I'm glad to see everyone in the land! It's a trader's curse!” Syril clapped his hands together with a jangle of beads. “So! What brings you to Valeover, friends?”</p><p>“We initially came for peridots,” Peregrine said, lakewater-cool. “But good Reyardine, I doubt this is the time for small talk.”</p><p>“No. My, no indeed.” He scratched at his long-waggling mane, squinting at nothing. “Have you heard the news? Gods help those folk and help them by bucketfuls!”</p><p>“Have we heard the news?” Whether Peregrine felt like listening for himself or not, this felt important and Tillian had to relay it. She leaned farther over Peregrine's shoulder. “We haven't heard it exactly. We've just arrived.”</p><p>“The demon has shown up in Fenwater, it just burst in like wind through the meadows!” Syril spoke quiet and harsh-edged; his eyes hopped to the aemet throngs around them. “Folk are rattled something terrible, but you don't need me to say that! It was only recognized by name today and most of Fenwater's aemets fled as soon as they could get to their feet. The blasted thing is clawing at other villages already! It'll be a wonder if Fenwater village doesn't just wink out of being, those poor kin!”</p><p>Tillian picked out the important bits of bad news to repeat. No stiffness ran through Peregrine – he must have expected this unyielding kernel at the center of everything. He folded his arms and said, “That means a warning went out, what, an hour before the exodus folk left? And then they arrived in new towns by the dozens?”</p><p>“Such a bucket of worms,” Syril agreed. “Most of them went to Opens. I happened to bring the exodus warning to Opens before the Fenwater folk arrived and what a storm when I landed! I suppose they'll be looking to trade in restoratives before anything else.” His eyes widened. “Oh, I ought to tell you, Peregrine! Opens's mage has a call out for more wings. I've stuck my snout in every corner of Valeover and they've got enough korvi to keep busy, but Opens? That's where the work is. Hold on, you need peridots, you said? I believe I've got a few!” Grinning lopsided, Syril dug into one of the bulging pouches tied about his waist. “I've got to get on my way to East Hotrock, but do business while it's here to do, that's what I say about that!”</p><p>By the time Tillian repeated the parts that mattered, Peregrine and Syril had handfuls of gems out to compare. Barter talk flowed between them, full of familiar gemstone terms. A few Redessence amethysts bought them an apple-sized pouch of anthill peridots, each gem small enough to glitter like sand. Tillian turned her pendant bead between her fingers, supposing that Giala could decorate for weeks once she had that many peridots. The thought suddenly felt flat and lifeless, in the middle of a town street churning with worry.</p><p>“Now's your best chance to trade amethyst,” Syril added, rearranging the contents of a cargo pouch. “Those take a fine darkcasting charge, and if there's any time folk won't be fussy about healing element, this is it!”</p><p>“You're going to Hotrock, then,” Peregrine said.</p><p>“I suppose I'd better, Bright's not making it any brighter out!” With another flare of wing feathers, Syril beamed at them. “Many thanks for your business, friends, and I look forward to trading with you again! Gods watch you!”</p><p>Syril hadn't vanished into the crowds yet when Peregrine turned, taking brisk steps that jarred though his body.</p><p>“He seems nice enough,” Tillian said, standing to watch the green-skinned crowds bury Syril.</p><p>“Red as a firejay,” Peregrine said cool, “and just as talkative.”</p><p>Talkative people bothered Peregrine, a whetstone scraped wrong over his edges. He needed to concentrate so hard to understand rapid words, and he was tired of not being paid the effort back: that was the only answer Tillian could see. If every conversation demanded an effort like hauling bricks, she would be tired, too.</p><p>Syril's horntips were long gone now, curtained by antennae, and Tillian lost his flax oil scent among horse droppings and dust. She settled in Peregrine's collarbone, facing forward.</p><p>“At least he gave us something useful in all that talking,” she said. “The demon showing up in Fenwater – he means gripthia, right?”</p><p>“Call it <span class="u">the demon</span>. Its name makes aemetkind all nerves.” Peregrine's voice was a teaching murmur, the tone Tillian grew up on. As he spoke, he walked straight and thrown-stone sure. “Everyone within days' flight needs to know that the demon has reemerged, as soon as messengers can manage to tell them.”</p><p>“So they can bring medicine?”</p><p>Peregrine's neck feathers lifted. “I suppose I haven't told you this much. This demon needs healing care to overcome – <span class="u">close</span> healing care. Some victims grow too badly poisoned to draw breath. If an aemet begins to struggle and their mage is too overrun to help, that aemet is as good as gone. That's why if a village doesn't look to be able to care for all its aemet folk, they need to flee while they can and find more mages. More healers, more of anyone at all. Their time is dear.”</p><p>Tillian had been sick once, said the dried-up bottom of her memory. She knew the feel of coughing that moved nothing inside her, and the shape of Peregrine's hands cupped to form a bed – she had been small, then, and unaware of just how small. If the aemets' demon acted anything like her sickness, then coughing would drain every mote of their strength and keep demanding more. They would need to strain against their every lead-weak limb to run, or else die at rest. No one should have to face a choice like that.</p><p>“That's awful,” she said, through the fear clotting in her throat. She wished the Barghest would help, but the Legend hound only judged things that the words <span class="u">right</span> and <span class="u">wrong</span> applied to. He couldn't stop demons from menacing any more than he could stop peoplekinds from breathing – Tillian hadn't believed that until she was nearly two years old, just because she thought it was too unfair be true.</p><p>Grasshoppers trilled beyond the fields. Peregrine kept walking until the crowds thinned and disappeared, until the homes all lay behind them and rattling cornstalks filled the land ahead. The town odors retreated; there was only wind and fields and Peregrine, who smelled like home.</p><p>“It's particularly awful since, when they flee, the demon stalks them and finds new towns.” Peregrine spoke with fangs. “There's no right decision. Stay and smother to death, or flee and damn other folk who don't deserve it.”</p><p>He stopped, sudden enough to make Tillian's nails twitch against his hide.</p><p>“Before we go any farther. Think on it with me, Tillian: Valeover is already churned up over this, and the Reyardine is flapping off now to tell East Hotrock.”</p><p>“That's close.” It leaped from Tillian's mouth before she could think, and shivering realization came with it. “They're our neighbour towns.”</p><p>“Fenwater is close enough that they'll get helping wings from Hotrock, I'd imagine. Perhaps merchants looking to do some business in curatives. Mostly bards and messengers whose time is up for barter.”</p><p>Peregrine settled onto his tail. The land spread huge around them, full of space and people and problems that Tillian could taste suddenly, a bitter anticipation at the back of her throat.</p><p>“Gods be with them, of course. But if everyone's efforts turn out poorly, the demon could be at Skyfield's door within an eightday. And now that we know about that, I suppose there's a duty to be had.”</p><p>Breeze moaned low over the plains. Tillian held tight to the electricity inside her, and straightened to match Peregrine.</p><p>“We have to help them,” she said. “It's only right.”</p><p>“No one with a mind or a heart refuses to help when the demon shows up. You saw the Reyardine stop thinking of his own pouch contents for a moment, and I doubt he does that often. When something like this occurs, it's only a matter of what there is to give.”</p><p>Dipping into stores of trade goods sounded easy. Everyone kept boxes and bins of things, or knew how to walk out into the wilderness and find a trove of something useful. But defeating the demon couldn't be as simple as a few stones exchanging hands, or else the Opens mage wouldn't have asked the entire eastern land to lend its people. Peregrine already planned to give what he could – that thought looked sewn into his brow.</p><p>“Your wings?”</p><p>“If they're strong enough.”</p><p>He stared furrows into the dirt. If only Tillian could help him with this, too. If only she had wings as wide as the sky so she could fly Peregrine everywhere – except that he was too proud for that. Far too proud.</p><p>“Let me rub, then.” Tillian turned and threaded her hands into his plumage. “Maythwind says it helps get the blood into your wings.”</p><p>The feel of feathers on dense muscle was practically like Tillian's own body, even if the slick traces of arnica and beeswax were new. Peregrine sighed, swaying onto his feet to walk.</p><p>“For a moment, if you would. I like to think I've got another hour of sky in me.”</p><p>She rubbed until her forearms were soaked tired. Peregrine stretched his wings with loose-shifting muscles, and no clumps of soreness passed under Tillian's feet. He kept walking regardless. He said Tillian ought to eat something first; the sky was no place for a meal. She had the last piece of roast potato pressed into her hands and she agreed to take her sweet moments chewing.</p><p>Thoughts of running wouldn't leave Tillian. She should have asked that Syril fellow how many folk ran away from Fenwater, so she would know how many figures to picture weaving through the grass; her imagination kept painting desperate-rushing thousands, so many aemet people wide-eyed and reeking of fear.</p><p>It must have been different for that peoplekind. Aemets had Verdana's strength to run with, same as the deer and the nurls blended into green thickets. Maybe aemets had more strength salted away than other kinds could even imagine. Tillian hoped that was true.</p><p>Running wouldn't have helped her when she was small, since she had been sick with salterra. That demon clung to family lines, Peregrine told her once in a pained mutter. There was no fleeing from a threat ingrained in Tillian's own body. She had stood her ground against it, digging in her button-sized heels with what strength she had, and she had endured. That time was so hazy in her mind; she would have to ask Peregrine about it sometime, ask him how he helped each new litter of Zitan's children to live.</p><p>Tillian gulped the last of her meal and asked Peregrine to fly. People needed them: the thought called to her like voices in the wide prairie air.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Until Rose found her missing sliver of knowledge, she would work with what pieces she had. Moist-steaming tea and pigeon broth were poured into cups – laced with every wholesome leaf Rose knew of – and then given to villagers to be eased down thickening throats. Fenwater neighbours rested in their piles of bedding, conversing in soft, rasping tones about the weather and the breeze and the things they wished they had gotten done.</p><p>Niro arrived, wearing a smile as he introduced his and Breeli's kittens: the five of them were a mixed pouch of their parents' fur colours, skinny with approaching adulthood, blinking curious at everyone and everything. There were suddenly ferrin skittering throughout the sickhouse – each kitten paused by Vilhelm's bedside, ears caught by his strange, sad rasping.</p><p>Dusk crept purple into the forest, filling the Tellig house with shadows. Rose dragged a firecasting spark to her fingertips to light a candle stub – she used a barest spark of fire and her plantcasting bristled thorny with fear. She watched the flame grudgingly crawl onto its wick, and then she took the knotted mass of fresh mallow root into her lap.</p><p>Focus would see Rose through her duties. She minded air currents long enough to be sure that the ferrin were moving steadily without her, and then she focused eyesight on the paring knife in her own hands. She began carving arcs with the flashing blade, baring white root flesh. It wouldn't do to be careless now, or to waste this gift the Saranstas family brought from great Verdana.</p><p>A skinny form slipped in the door, directly into a dark corner. Only aemet children hid for the sake of watching – and only one child remained in Fenwater.</p><p>“Clover.” Rose looked at her, offering a smile. “Do you need anything?”</p><p>“Um.” She came an unsure step closer; she glanced about, like the sheltering thorn bushes of the broodery had suddenly turned to empty air. “Niro said the pigeon broth is almost ready. But he said we need the plant things you have.”</p><p>Niro knew what each leaf and stalk could treat, although he often couldn't remember the commontongue words to call them by. He must have tried to act out what he needed right now, his ears folding pensive.</p><p>“Thank you,” Rose said. “I'll bring the right herbs in a moment, they're nearly ready. You can come here and watch, if you'd like. Is this the root you found?”</p><p>Easing closer on fawn-skinny legs, Clover nodded. “Mother said it helps our throats.” She buried her face in her sleeves to cough.</p><p>Everything felt to be a question when a child said it. Rose had learned from Father this same way, always needing to know why, <span class="u">why</span>. She minded her hands now, holding the knife with correct technique, slicing the mallow root skin away in curling shards of demonstration.</p><p>“Mallow is good for sore throats,” she agreed. “I'm going to add it to the broth and the tea. There's ... going to be a lot of tea.”</p><p>“That stops the demon?”</p><p>If only it did. Rose's throat tightened. The only words that seemed right were classic legend words, a clean and musical explanation composed by someone else; Rose certainly couldn't speak any better.</p><p>“When the land was young,” she began, “the terrible demon ran free.”</p><p>Clover sat, folding her legs eager. Good legends dissolved slow like honey candy.</p><p>“It was a savage hunting beast, with claws like sickle blades. It was bigger than the Mulvarp, fiercer than the Griffin, and more ruthless than the Barghest would ever be. All night and day, the demon chased betweenkind, so the sylphs never touched earth and all the aemets could do was run. Every time our kind tried to build a home or grow food, the demon tore it all up with its claws. A few brave souls stood before it and asked why it would do this, but the demon struck them down without an answer. It laughed and laughed as our people ran.”</p><p>Clover stared. Maybe she wondered why strong korvi hadn't protected their friends; Rose had wondered that, at Clover's age.</p><p>“Aemetkind ran until they stumbled and heaved for breath, and they hid, praying they wouldn't be found. But Willow, the first mage, had been using her every crumb of time teaching her four daughters how to cure away demons. Each daughter helped recite lessons to her younger sister, and the youngest, Thia, was surrounded fully by wisdom. Thia looked up from the remedies and she saw with clear eyes how tired our people were. She told everyone the demon was a plague on the land, and that someone needed to cure it. They agreed with her, but no one knew how to stop a beast so fierce. It had hide like tough bark and no one could guess where to drive a curative in.</p><p>“Thia didn't know either but she promised she would try, and she walked into the deepest glade of the forest. She gathered four stems of every plant great Verdana had to offer. She concentrated long and hard over a clean crystal, and filled it so full of casting that it shone like the Great Gem. And then, Thia tied all the healing supplies to her back and went to face the demon. She didn't speak except for a prayer whispered under her breath: she apologized to Verdana for seeking a confrontation this way, and she asked for a blessing of luck.”</p><p>Silence filled the room. Rose's knife bit crisp through mallow root.</p><p>“She walked out into a wide plain, a lonely place with no one around for a whole day's run. Wind whistled around Thia, shaping warnings for her, but she kept walking. She came upon a swamp where nothing grew – and as she looked upon it, the demon rose from the slimy water. It stood tall enough to block every breath of wind in the sky, and it looked down at Thia and laughed. It told her to run while she could. But Thia was brave, thinking about her weary, terrified people, and she stood sure. The demon lunged at her, terrible claws ready to strike, and at that moment the winds turned to Thia's favour.”</p><p>The <span class="u">winds turning</span> part still made Rose wonder. Thia might have airsensed the answers. The wind might have become a tempest to help her, the land itself rising to pin the monster down. If only the legend's first teller were there now; Rose couldn't say what her ancient kin had wanted their story to mean.</p><p>“Then what happened?” Clover's voice was ant-small.</p><p>“She tried a leaf against the demon, and ran from its claws, and tried another leaf. Mint and rosehip and coneflower all cut through the demon's hide. It howled like oblivion, shaking the land and tearing the earth. The fight went on until Thia could hardly stand and her clothes stiffened with her own blood. The demon grabbed for her throat and she caught its claws with her last remedy, a strip of willow bark. The beast leaned close then, its eyes like firerock, its breath as rank as death. It told her she could never win. She could burn a thousand silly nicks into its hide if she wanted, but she could never kill a demon. As it tightened its grip, Thia called the last of her strength. She let go of her willow bark, and allowed the demon to grip her throat. When demon opened its jaws to laugh, she shoved her shining casting stone down its throat.”</p><p>Breeze stirred outside, pulling at the street dust. Clover curled in on herself now, looking even smaller than she was, staring and silent. She had to feel as fear-numb as Rose did, as anyone did hearing this lesson for the first time. Holding tight to the words, Rose pressed on.</p><p>“Thia died that day. Her throat was crushed under the demon's claws, and there was no one nearby to help her. But the demon could barely stand over her body. It clutched at its stomach and limped away, bleeding everywhere a healing leaf had touched it. No one sensed a hair of it for eight peaceful years.”</p><p>This part of the legend seemed to stare straight at Rose, waiting to be told:</p><p>“That demon took the name of its greatest enemy,” she recited, “so everyone would remember who walked away from that fight. Gripthia will always return. But if we stand sure and use our gifts well ... We can drive it away. It doesn't have to truly win.”</p><p>“You're going to beat it,” Clover said, simple as air.</p><p>Rose wanted to run, wanted to throw away this false film of courage and run like her instincts commanded. She gathered pale mallow slices, hoping for neutrality on her face. “Yes. It's my responsibility. Here, put out your hands. Let the mallow cook in the pigeon broth for a long moment, until it's fork-soft, and I'll be right there to check. All right?”</p><p>Clover chirped obedient, forming her fingers around the sticky-sliding disks. She left; her wake in the air washed over a sitting ferrin.</p><p>“That's a good story.” Breeli shuffled in past the door poles.</p><p>“It's– It's not like you to sit quiet like that.”</p><p>“I like stories, all right? Normally have to tell 'em to myself. Now, you know what that legend means to say, don't you?”</p><p>“Most of what it means, I suppose.” The leftover root skins evaded Rose, white-belled shards like minnows between her fingers. “I have to drive the demon away from Fenwater,” she murmured. “They're depending on me to stop this huge, awful monster– Or fight it, I suppose, if it won't listen to reason. How am I supposed to live a legend?”</p><p>“Same way you told it.” Breeli smirked. “Start at the start, and go one word at a time. “</p><p>Caring for the village wasn't like telling a legend to one rapt listener. It was a tangle of conversations around Rose; she hadn't learned half of her own words and she hoped she could pronounce the rest.</p><p>“I think Vilhelm is starting a fever,” Breeli said. Her ears levelled and her smile died. “He feels warmer than your kind usually does, but check if I've done it right, will you, kit?”</p><p>Fevers meant the worst was near. Fevers meant giving folk all the attention that could be spared, because a moment unwatched could be the moment they boiled away in. Rose's hands snatched useless at root peelings in front of her. She swallowed; stickiness clung all down her throat.</p><p>“Of course. I'll be right there.”</p><p>Three root skin bits fell from her grip as she pinched up one – Verdana help Rose if she was too clumsy for simple tidying up. Breeli hopped closer, her spread fingers raking over the dirt.</p><p>“Leave the little things to the little ones, will you? Kerester Keelas is good at clearing up, likely because he's the one knocking it all over, but pay that part a small grain of mind.”</p><p>Rose had ferrin aides. Allies ran by her heels, and more allies would come to join them – she had to believe that. She could stand strong only long enough.</p><p>“Thank you,” Rose murmured. She dropped the root skins into the Middling scrap bucket and hurried her palms dry on her leggings.</p><p>“Actually, Kerester Keelas is showing some promise in nursing folk, too. I wouldn't have guessed it of him! He'll pick Kerester as his name, any day now, bet a plum on it.” Breeli waved her hands. “No, no, don't listen to my chatter! See to your village, kit.”</p><p>Rose wouldn't have minded more chatter, except that she didn't have the time to trade for it. She picked up mint stems and left, bracing against the sensation of breathed air.</p><p>After three hours of repetition, the regular motions of throat-clearing wore away Rose's panic. Weak, useless coughs threaded into the fabric of life – as though it was normal to play so many games of four-twig to pass the time, as though fraying voices were a mere detail to ignore. Any aemet was calmer with kin gathered around, even if they were gathered for a dreadful reason.</p><p>Rose tried not to watch neighbours pressing their hands together in prayer. Cliffton had fetched willow leaves before he went to sleep, fresh enough leaves for heartfelt prayers – gods bless him for the thought. Slivers of fresh green showed from between villagers' pressed palms, close to their hearts. They were speaking with great Verdana as directly as a person could, short of meeting the goddess in the forest on a wanderer's raw luck.</p><p>One of the kittens brought Rose a dropped leaf, sniffing ginger at the clean-pinched stem. He sensed the importance but he couldn't grasp the plant goddess's presence in the sap; Rose explained in as few words as she could, and the little one looked like he grew a hair's width on that knowledge.</p><p>While Rose turned her attention to cleaning, she airsensed more willow leaves transferring to ferrin hands, travelling to the Middling scrap buckets for later ceremony. So many prayers gathered in this room, and so many restless-wandering thoughts. She wondered what anyone could say to aemetkind's High One hadn't already been said. Deeper regrets than anyone else would understand, perhaps. Rose kept the dropped willow leaf tucked into her bindings, where it lay smooth and constant against her skin.</p><p>Night fell. The tea-pouring slowed and stopped; villagers let their conversations fade, and all twenty-eight people stilled, and slept.</p><p>Rose decided to call it peaceful, at least for the moment. She visited each bedside, testing foreheads and throats and the air rising off skin – three more folk had the clammy first stirrings of fever. Rose showed the ferrin how to soak cloths in salt water and keep their neighbours' heads wet: sweating was good, mage teachings said. This was a beneficial form of dampness, too full of healing salt to bring any mold or harm. Betweenkind bodies simply needed help to sweat, because their insect-shelled insides didn't understand their warm flesh.</p><p>Breeli, Niro and the kits scattered to their work, picking up stacks of ready-folded rags. Fahras left for more water, now that there was another use for it. The sick house turned quiet for a moment, its air pooled in a valley. This wasn't true peace, but it was close. Korvi help wouldn't be flapping outside in the next few hours, not with great Dark filling the skies. There were only sleep-loose faces and the raking motion of breath around Rose, only the ferrin passing like breezes and the clear sound of water wrung back into its bucket. She would be wise to get some thinking done.</p><p>She smoothed a freshly wet cloth between Vilhelm's antennae. His body shed fever heat now; his face twisted unhappy at Rose's touch and mumbling broke through his sleep. Watercasting might help him but Rose hadn't even begun to learn that complex art, and no common herbs were brave enough to challenge an excess of heat. Rose wanted a cure to hold and her thoughts kept circling back to willow bark – but she couldn't use that. Not yet.</p><p>Rose felt tired, and supposed it she was only weary of not knowing what to do. She left her touch on Vilhelm for a hope-soaked moment, then left him, carrying on down the rows of beds.</p><p>Motion died away as the kittens retired. A makeshift ferrin nest formed in one corner, made of borrowed sheets and sackcloth, crumpled the way their kind felt was right. The kittens braided around one another, white-black-grey wrapped in earth-coloured cloth. Breeli and Niro fussed over their children for a moment, grooming fur until all five tiny chests rose and fell even, then they returned to watching aemetkind sleep.</p><p>Rose spent a moment kneeling over the Irving brothers, concentrating on the heat carrying air away from their skin. They had been working the land that very morning, and now all three lay still and rasping, cocooned in wet cloths. The time passed since then felt distorted, full of more events and faces than it could reasonably hold.</p><p>Fahras's large form lolloped closer, ears low; he set his bucket down with care, like the sound might awaken bad luck. “How are they?”</p><p>Cliffton should have rested hours before he did, and drank his mint tea while it was steaming and potent – as the eldest, Rose imagined he should take more care, for his brothers' sake. Arlin had minded himself better, but his breath still sounded like thorns. Sherwin rasped the same way; he still looked more child than man, especially now, tiny inside the bedclothes.</p><p>“They'll be fine,” Rose said. “Don't worry.”</p><p>She didn't expect it to work; Fahras gave his meek smile anyway. “If you're there next time they wake up, could you please tell them I'm sorry? I'd like to be here if they need anything, but going to the river takes–”</p><p>Then Rose heard it – a sound passing through the others like a needle, sliding familiar out of her nightmares. She lifted a hand; Fahras bit off his words.</p><p>“That's ...”</p><p>It was coming from Vilhelm. Life and sound felt more real as Rose went to him, her heart stuck in her throat. This was the gripthia squeak, the sound of claws tightening, the sensation of air whistling ominous.</p><p>“Already?” Rose laid fingertips on his throat. “Oh, gods around us.”</p><p>Fahras squirmed, and sat close by.</p><p>Chanting herb names would be no more help to Rose, not at this inevitable stage. Only strong plantcasters could pry open the demon's grip, matching green lifestrength against those intent claws. Only healers and mages could save their fellows. Rose was all water inside – sloshing and boneless – but she placed cupped hands over Vilhelm's throat. It was time to try, however much of a mage she was.</p><p>Plantcasting came the instant she called it, that twining strength she was born full of. It lit Rose's hands and sent life coiling green into Vilhelm's throat, the glow deepening shadow planes on his face. And then all Rose knew was the living flesh under her palms. Blood flow and structure. Weight clinging to all of it. Her plantcasting spread inward – she and it knew that the weighted sensation was the wicked presence of poison – and the curing began. Smothering toxins drained into the plantcasting and scattered to nothing; air flowed free in Rose's airsense, a normal and distant motion outside her focus. She called the plantcasting back, tugging her vines away, falling dizzy back into herself. She opened her eyes to dim hearth light. Moments had tumbled past Rose and she was sitting on the floor among steady-breathing friends.</p><p>Vilhelm's face was smoother, untensed. Sleep-depth returned to his breathing; he was calm and safe for this moment. He had fret lines etched around his eyes and wise brown threading into his hair, things Rose couldn't recall noticing before. This sickness was just one recent event in his three and a half decades spent living, and the shifting in nearby beds was from his wife and child – gods, everything Rose did was tied together by people and lives.</p><p>His squeaking had been easy to dispel. Like treating endnettle scratches, or a poor choice of mushroom. Rose could overcome this trouble, she continued to hope. She looked gentle to Fahras.</p><p>“When you hear that–” She searched for words. “That squeaking sound, find me. All right?”</p><p>Fahras nodded, his eyes lake-wide. “Can I do anything else?”</p><p>There was no pailful of cure he could fetch, and he couldn't plantcast. Rose couldn't even teach him to cast: she didn't yet know the depth of her own skills. Care had to flow from Rose, outward to her villagers, if she planned to be a proper mage. She rubbed her eyes; spots twirled under her closed lids.</p><p>“I've got some camellia,” she said.</p><p>It was Father's, a cache of tea-plant meant to dye his clothes a rare sepia shade. He had thanked the friend who gifted it – then he told Rose, in murmured confidence, that camellia was wasted as dye when it made such a fine energizing tonic. <span class="u">We'll save this</span>, he said.</p><p>“Fahras, would you check if there's hot water? And have Breeli and Niro join us for a drink.”</p><p>A thankful spark lit Fahras: he could boil all the ordinary water Rose ever needed.</p><p>Rose brewed camellia tea for the four of them, pouring for Fahras and Breeli and Niro first. Here was a dose of Arnon's wisdom, sitting red-dark in the clay cups, strengthening his villagers even in his absence. The ferrin declared the flavour strong, but there was honey to fix that.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peregrine liked to think he could endure a little work. He had tempered himself in the mines, hauling rock until his body balked at the thought of more, until he felt like spent ashes all over and he still needed to cross the plains home. Fyrian hadn't intended his sky-child korvi to break rock, but they did it anyhow. Someone needed to provide.</p><p>Now Peregrine was doing what his wing-furnished body was intended for: flapping onward. Each beat of his wings brought himself and his earferrin a stone's throw closer to Opens town. He drove fire into his wings, focusing on the steady pace of flogging air with his feathers. Approaching evening dulled the warm plains updrafts, snatching relief out from under his wings. The earth's pull intensified, a demand no one could refuse forever.</p><p>Peregrine couldn't keep on this way. Cramps seared in his back. He didn't recall deciding to land – thought petered out of him until he didn't think, he only needed. His wings were already levelled, against the breeze and pouch-wrapped Tillian sat secure in his hands. Field grass rushed up to take Peregrine and he landed, a snake strike impact in each ankle.</p><p>His vision cleared as his smoke did, spat away on the wind. Opens town stood shining in the distance, its light gems holding off the purple glow of dusk. Peregrine dragged his wings shut on their last, dragging strength, and he began to walk on perfectly able legs. What a fine son of the sky he was.</p><p>Tillian hopped onto his shoulder, curling into his feathers. She had little to say about the field ahead.</p><p>Opens sprawled and bustled – this was a place truly large enough to call a town. Aemets moved in currents, bending around Peregrine, leaving generous space he reminded himself to appreciate. Light stabbed through the crowds wherever a light gem could be tucked; quartz shone cloudy gold on top of doorposts; garnets shone wine-dark on the corners of horse-drawn carts. Tillian turned on Peregrine's shoulder, and turned again, like she couldn't take in this new place quickly enough.</p><p>“Any news?”</p><p>“It sounds like everyone's preparing,” she said. Fur and cloth brushed Peregrine's neck. “They're talking about things to bring. And where to go, and what they're going to do.”</p><p>As though everyone was ready to bolt. Actually, that was exactly what they were planning for, smart wagers said. Aemets dropped their lives at the first glimpse of danger, particularly at the first glimpse of gripthia because the banished thing just couldn't leave them alone. A girl at the street's edge caught Peregrine's eye, someone young and flower-stalk skinny, lifting a hand to her mouth over whatever horrid news her companion was telling her. She didn't see the old korvi passing her by; she didn't look like she was seeing anything but her own heartful of fear.</p><p>“We need the mage,” Peregrine muttered.</p><p>“I keep hearing the name Ethen,” Tillian said. “Maybe that's the mage? One moment, I'll find out.”</p><p>Peregrine stopped, and rubbed his closed eyes until sparks bloomed. Tillian's weight skittered over his wingshoulders – she chirped questions to someone in the crowd, some amiable face Peregrine couldn't find the will to look at.</p><p>“Peregrine?” Tillian slipped close to his ear. “Ethen is the town leader. He's at the end of this street, the big wood home.”</p><p>Leader, mage –- whatever the fellow declared himself was fine. Peregrine grunted answer, refocusing on the flowing crowds and grass-textured walls. Back to putting one foot in front of the other, skimming his tail tip over the dirt in case his feet should fail.</p><p>“Do you want me down?”</p><p>“No. You'd get trod on.” He had been carrying ferrin like his own flesh for one hundred years; mere weight wasn't Peregrine's trouble right now.</p><p>Tillian said nothing. On the slender chance of easing her mind, Peregrine forced himself tall, his strides uniform as his wingbeats should have been.</p><p>The aemet crowds stopped clean, as though parted with a ruler. There was sudden, plentiful space, enough for Peregrine to spread his wings wide if he wished to, and the passing korvi and ferrin passed wore determined faces. This divide felt familiar. Peregrine held his tongue; he could hardly teach Tillian a thought he wasn't sure was truth. Beyond a procession of grass thatch walls, one board house hunkered in a pool of brightcasting light. Gauze-wrapped light stones dangled from the door posts, illuminating the fact that the curtain was tied open – and that was good enough invitation for Peregrine. He rapped on the door pole as he passed it.</p><p>An aemet flicked his gaze up as they entered, candlelight gathering in his thought-creased brows. Tillian called a greeting. The fellow smiled, standing from his granite table.</p><p><span class="u">Hello</span>, he must have said. Ear din drowned his voice out completely, and his mouth movements flowed on without Peregrine, gods damn the fatigue cluttering up his mind.</p><p>“Yes, we heard about it from Syril,” Tillian answered. “This is Peregrine of Ruelle, and I'm his earferrin Tillian Sri, call me Tillian.”</p><p>The man looked more closely at Peregrine; his smile didn't reach his eyes. He pitied people gracefully, at least. Peregrine put the last of his will toward watching this leader's lips and tongue – he had more sense than to ignore what he came asking about.</p><p><span class="u">Welcome to Opens</span>, the leader said, <span class="u">I'm Ethen Grigory. And I'm–</span> then a quick flurry of words, <span class="u">–under such circumstances.</span> He had the right facial build to smile that way, broad and mild as plains hills.</p><p>Peregrine nodded – and Tillian bit off the beginning of her repetition.</p><p>“Circumstances are why we're here,” he said.</p><p>“We'd like to help,” Tillian added, her weight shifting forward.</p><p>A moment passed while Ethen considered the two of them, perhaps reading the air around them. He swept a hand toward his sitting table.</p><p><span class="u">Forgive me</span>, he said. More rapid words.</p><p>“He's got brambleberries mulling,” Tillian repeated. “If we take a seat, he'll tell us what's going on.”</p><p>That was a fair bargain. Peregrine knelt at the table, the cool stone touching his knees, Tillian hopping liquid to the floor beside him. After a moment's bustling, Ethen brought lacquered cups full of steaming berry mull and nudged a bowl of barley cracker shards to within Tillian's reach.</p><p>“If you speak a bit slower,” Tillian said crisp, “Peregrine can follow. Clearly, please.”</p><p>With an appraising squint – perhaps he hummed thoughtful – Ethen nodded. He tried, <span class="u">Where are you from, friends? </span></p><p>“Skyfield,” Tillian replied. “We heard about the demon while we were in Valeover.”</p><p>
  <span class="u">I'm glad you've come. You may have noticed the split of kinds here?</span>
</p><p>He surely meant the aemets portioned into one half of the town; peoplekinds didn't split apart so easily as fat and water.</p><p>“We couldn't avoid walking through it,” Peregrine said. “You've arranged a quarantine?”</p><p><span class="u">That's exactly it.</span> Ethen lifted his folded hands toward his face, then hurriedly returned them to the tabletop. He had guessed that he ought not to hide his mouth while speaking with a deaf man: he caught on swifter than most. <span class="u">Our kind is over six hundred strong here. I can't have that many people take exodus, you see. There's only Valeover and East Hotrock close enough to flee to, and they'd be overrun. So, we here in Opens must–</span> He looked into his cup, mouth eclipsed by the curve of his face.</p><p>“They need to manage as best they can within the town,” Tillian repeated. She stretched to grab a cracker.</p><p>Looking up, Ethen blinked puzzled. <span class="u">Apologies. Is this all right?</span></p><p>“Fine,” Peregrine muttered. “Keep going.”</p><p>Of course. Taking care of Opens means not tempting the demon, so our ailing folk are all kept at this end of town, along with any aemetkind who've been near them. We have korvi and ferrin going between the ill and the well, to pass messages and keep the calm.</p><p>No creature alive grew as bristlingly tense as a worried aemet. They jumped at every breath of air, ready to drop all their material things and run for precious life. Flight was the only cure they knew for fear – and yet here was a half-aemet town waiting and listening.</p><p>“You must have a sweet tongue,” Peregrine said.</p><p>Ethen quirked a brow. <span class="u">They say I do, anypace. Quarantine works, friends. Opens would be seeds to the wind if we all fled but, as you can see, this town is still strong. Opens leaders have talked folk into staying here for seven generations.</span></p><p>Aemet generations, he surely meant. If those seven aemet generations were fortunate, they had lived for as much time combined as one korvi. Peregrine felt old as earth; he shifted and his joints ground, dusty.</p><p><span class="u">We have enough ferrin here to support our mage, Daisy, I'm sure you'll meet her and her cousins. What I need this moment,</span> and Ethen laced his fingers, his nails forming thistle-spine rows, <span class="u">Is messengers. Hotrock has korvi mages and the best mageling ferrin anywhere. We need to form plans with them if we're to save folk's lives.</span></p><p>“I'll help, but remember that I've got miner's wings.”</p><p>“Between towns is fine for us,” Tillian added, her ears drooping at the edge of Peregrine's vision. “Just, um, not quickly.”</p><p>Yes, that's fine. The slowest korvi is still quicker than an aemet runner.</p><p>Likely not, unless the runner met wolves. Peregrine hid a frown in his drink.</p><p>Tillian canted her head. “You're sure you don't need us here?”</p><p><span class="u">No, we'll manage. We have plenty of hands right now and there'll be more once I get in touch with Tijo. What I need is someone to fly to Fenwater.</span> Ethen took hold of his mull cup like it was a luck charm, a shadow crossing his face. <span class="u">Their ill folk brought six ferrin with them to help, and last I knew of it, Fenwater didn't have that many ferrin to spare. There are folk left in that town, and they need whatever and whoever we can send. I don't need a messenger to tell me that.</span></p><p>It didn't matter how loudly Peregrine's bones ached: people, somewhere in the distance, ached full of cruel sickness. He nodded.</p><p>Even carrying a few healing stones there will help. Whatever your wings can manage. We need only what you're able to give, of course.</p><p>“I doubt it's much,” Peregrine said, “but you can have it.”</p><p>Tillian's ears flicked higher. That made him sure.</p><p>Cool night air struck Pergerine as they left that house. Opens's aemets and korvi had retired, taking some light gems with them, leaving a handful of ferrin scurrying in the streets. Their feet moved considerably quicker than Peregrine's; he called a spark of firecasting out of his chest, and it bled away as soon as he charged it. He felt no stronger.</p><p>“I could get down,” Tillian asked.</p><p>“No. Did you catch everything there was to learn?”</p><p>“I think so. Um, Peregrine?”</p><p>“Yes?” He followed thatch houses to the northwest, according to the directions he seemed to recall.</p><p>Tillian shifted, her tail curling up onto his shoulder. “While we're in Fenwater, we could stay for a while and help the mage. Carrying healing stones is fine but there must be more we can do.”</p><p>There surely was. <span class="u">Check on Rose</span>, Ethen had said, like Fenwater had no leader and no mage – only a whimpering child.</p><p>Peregrine sighed. “When was the last time you used a stone?”</p><p>“Not that long ago. Giala had me start a bright healing stone this past Griffinmonth, she had splintered a claw. I think you were asleep.”</p><p>That wasn't the same as tending someone while they laboured to breathe. But then, Tillian caught on like fire to any skill he had ever shown her. But this was different. What point was Peregrine trying to make to himself, exactly? He shook his head; it felt hollow.</p><p>“We'll see what's needed,” he said.</p><p>More thatch and more people coursed past, and an aproned young ferrin led Peregrine deeper into the warren. They arrived at a house full of darkness, nighttime purple light fanning in under the door curtain and down through the ceiling smoke hole. Opens had prepared more than enough housing for the borrowed help to come, and allowed a charitable amount of space to each bedding stack. Peregrine chose one in the corner, away from the mounded shapes of sleeping people.</p><p>Tillian left to see to her basic needs. She would be back any moment and there was no reason to dwell on it like a hen. Sitting in a pool of someone else's sheets, Peregrine took stock of what he had lived out this day. Gods help him if Tillian was thinking what he feared she was. She couldn't sit on the Fenwater mage's shoulder – aemets weren't built sturdy enough for that.</p><p>He closed his eyes. There was nothing to hear but the ear din's roar; if anyone was speaking, their voice hummed too low to matter. Peregrine had a bed under his shins and current-swept life all around. Perhaps fish felt like this – floating still in lakebed dark – but the cloistered smell of bedding mats ruined that thought some.</p><p>It took every drop his concentration to find Tillian's footsteps. She was a lolloping, percussive presence, breaking free of the low-pitched rabble outside, approaching through the door. If she noticed herself at this moment, she would surely hear the sound sand made, the dragging nuances against her tail or her sarong frills or some such thing.</p><p>“Peregrine? I'm back.”</p><p>He grunted soft, turning onto his belly. She shifted in the dark, untying her sarong and necklace for the night.</p><p>“It's quiet for all the people around,” she said in a reed-narrow whisper. “The people in here are breathing evenly like they're fast asleep. Six of them, I think, an equal mix of kinds.” She hopped closer. “May I sleep on you?”</p><p>She needed friends' touch to sleep properly; they both knew Peregrine wouldn't say no. He muttered for courtesy's sake, and her weight moved between his wings, paws tamping away soreness as she circled.</p><p>“Gripthia strikes in the chest, right?” Her voice parted the din and the dark.</p><p>Peregrine ought to find her a mage to ask questions of: answers were only as good as the giver. But he knew where this string of thought was leading and Tillian wouldn't want an answer from any mouth but his. He settled, chin flat against the bed's plane, and kicked the sheets to order. “Gripthia affects the throat, as much as I know.”</p><p>“I heard coughing from the other houses. Well, really more of a wheeze. It sounds like air squeezed out of a paper parcel.” Tillian laid her head between his shoulders, where the muscle and feathers piled thickest. Her ears were surely held high, curious.</p><p>Peregrine closed his eyes – he was a tough pikefish again, floating on a lake bottom where he could smell storage-dusty blankets. “It's not the same as anything your kind is caught by. Gripthia ... I'm not sure of its exact ways, but it shows itself first in the throat and doesn't care much who its victims are. Salterra strikes at the lungs, it's a rheumy sickness. And a cowardly one, since it only bothers young kittens.”</p><p>“Did I need much help?”</p><p>Tillian had coughed a lot when she was small. Small enough to sit curled in Peregrine's hands, fur barely grown in over her heaving chest, stifling politely into her palms before she looked back up at him and kept listening. He said the word <span class="u">earferrin</span>; she said yes. And that was that, arrangements made for a lifetime.</p><p>“Most of your litter took herbed steam for three weeks.” Peregrine swallowed; the motion didn't loosen his tongue any. “Wellis needed the steam longer that. It wasn't as trying for him as for your mother, though.”</p><p>A pause – like Tillian could taste the vinegar of understatement, or imagine the way Kelria had nearly smothered to death – and she squirmed deeper into Peregrine's feathers. “The steam really helped us?”</p><p>Their breathing had seemed to flow easier after a steam treatment, to Peregrine's panic-sharp senses, but he had never once asked a Redessence kitten. He was too busy with the thought that they might choke so soon and never have their chance to live – Ambri help them, it wasn't fair.</p><p>“I suppose it helped.” Nausea gripped Peregrine; he didn't know why cures worked, only that they did, and he hoped that mere fact was enough. “The mage thought that your grandmother would have lived longer if she'd breathed more mint steam.”</p><p>Darkness clung around them. Tillian shifted, curling in on herself.</p><p>“There's something to help everything, I think,” she decided. “Somewhere in the land.”</p><p>She had no idea. She imagined help free for the plucking everywhere, as easy as asking for it. Goodwill was no casting element – thousands of people felt it, but no one could pour a change of circumstance out of their casting center. That could only be worked and pined for.</p><p>By the time the memories stopped and Peregrine was fit to speak, Tillian's only movement was sleep-even breath. He had nothing worth saying, anypace. His concentration leached away into his borrowed bed; furkind heat seeped into his wingshoulders; phantom fur brushed his neck with every name he recalled.</p><p>Peregrine sighed for no one to hear. If visiting strangers' hands could help dry away salterra, he would have wanted them – all the hands he could ask for.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Morning brought pain, caked on Peregrine's wingshoulders and packed into his head. He stoked firecasting, and focused on Tillian's spot of furkind warmth until it blurred away.</p><p>Daybright limned every object and person around them. Tillian dressed and Peregrine preened, morning routines hanging crooked in a house full of strangers.</p><p>“Oh!” Tillian looked up at him, tying her pendant string behind her neck. “You need your arnica. We could ask Ethen for some?”</p><p>“He's got more than enough remedies to fuss over.”</p><p>“But if you're flying errands for him, he'd want to help you.”</p><p>Peregrine reached the end of a primary quill and smoothed it as neat as it could ever get. He opened his wing wider, starting his claws at the base of the next quill. Ache dug deeper the farther he twisted; he frowned at his feathers.</p><p>“It's no large trouble. I simply need to move.”</p><p>He couldn't look at Tillian right now. She was giving him wide deer eyes, that look like she had failed him somehow and she was sorrier than her little body could hold.</p><p>“Then be careful, all right?” She hopped closer, smoke-pale at the edge of his vision. “You can land to rest if you need to.”</p><p>He harrumphed, and hurried down the last few quills; the tertiaries always jostled themselves ragged against his body so there was nothing to gain by lingering over them. He tapped his shoulder. “The kit last night said something about breakfast corn, didn't he?”</p><p>Tillian bounded from his thigh to his shoulder, and recited the directions. She had nothing else to tell him after that.</p><p>Ethen brought filled cargo pouches out of storage boxes, one for each of Peregrine's free hands.</p><p><span class="u">Mostly healing stones</span>, he explained, as though the weight and balance didn't speak its own words. <span class="u">Charging a few stones is the best I can do to help Fenwater. Is that too much to carry?</span></p><p>Peregrine would be flying with Tillian hung from his shoulders and at least twice as much weight dangling from his waistband. Gold-distant years ago, he had hauled far more jewel weight from his mines. He had traded sense for strain, at times, but never at a poor rate of exchange.</p><p>“I'll manage,” he said.</p><p>He tied the pouches on, one at each side of his waistband so they dragged even. He would need to mind to his lift-offs and landings – pouches this heavy could swing themselves with force, and Peregrine hardly cared for bruises – but the total burden felt to be less than half of his body weight. He had indeed carried worse.</p><p>Ethen watched Peregrine still, like looking into murky soup broth and guessing what to add. <span class="u">You're sure, good Ruelle?</span></p><p>“Of course.” And burn it, if he thought he knew better than Peregrine did–</p><p>Tillian asked, “You charge healing stones?” She edged closer to Peregrine's center of balance, her feet cupping the ridges of his spine. “Are you a mage or a leader, Ethen?”</p><p>Ethen smiled at her, his tension a cut rope. <span class="u">Some call me a mageling, if that's your answer? I just aid Daisy, and that tends to mean that I arrange the whole land to her benefit.</span></p><p>“That's nice of you. I'd like to tell her how comfortable her town is, whenever we get to meet her. Breakfast was wonderful!”</p><p><span class="u">I'd be glad to pass that message along for you, Tillian, it'll do Daisy's spirits good. And Peregrine?</span> Ethen's smile thinned. <span class="u">Please come back here once you've run your errand. But I don't need to tell you that, I'm sure.</span></p><p>Peregrine didn't get distracted so easily. He nodded. “Anything that needs doing. That's what I've planned on.”</p><p>If anyone could understand that, a leader would; Peregrine decided he didn't mind Ethen's appraising stare and careful-kept hope. He left the farewells to Tillian.</p><p>Wind blew in their favour – to the south-east, urging Peregrine away from Opens' dirt roads and up into the clear-yellow sky. Gusts dug under his feathers, impatient.</p><p>“You're all tight back here. Hold on.” Tillian hopped across his neck and dug the heels of her hands into a knot of ache. Peregrine could let her continue, dallying along on foot for a half hour while the relief trickled in – such a tempting thought.</p><p>“We haven't got time to wait.” He tapped her toes.</p><p>“If sick aemets ran here, Fenwater can't be far,” Tillian said. She slid off Peregrine's shoulder, fur ruffling wrongways against his chest, and dropped into the companion pouch's confines. “The breeze sounds steady.” She paused, and added, “And the cornfields sound ... hm, heavy, I guess. They're rustling like everything's ripe.”</p><p>“You can hear corn ripening?”</p><p>“Peregrine, you know what I mean.”</p><p>He did, watching the top-heavy sway of cornstalks around them. He smirked. “Fine.” He breathed deep enough to taste fresh traces of farmers' plantcasting. After a moment to gather his good sense, he said, “I should be able to see Fenwater once we're half there, if I know my distances. We'll land to rest then.”</p><p>Tillian squirmed, possibly turning to face him. Peregrine watched the clouds now: such thin white smears were a good travellers' sign, sliding along on brisk wind. He leaned forward, minding the hanging bulk of the healing stones; he fanned his wings; he focused all the fire strength his limbs could hold.</p><p>“However much you can do is fine,” Tillian said, “all right?” She sounded like she wholly meant it.</p><p>Fenwater was a marsh town, Peregrine recalled. Its folk grew a tenacious fraction of the eastern land's cotton supply, and occasionally traded away their succulent herbs and moss-stippled wood. Everything centered on their green-lush swamp mires. Small surprise that the demon showed up in Fenwater, then – everyone knew that wet feet made a farmer or forager ill, despite all the good water could do in more soothing forms. Water god Okeos had mixed mercies.</p><p>Forest came into sight as Peregrine flew, its stands of trees smudged like paint in the distance. He landed as promised, holding his wings wide against the pull of the earth and against the wrenching in his shoulders. Landing stung less than usual, thanks to the moss packing under his feet. He straightened. Tufts of rockgrass wagged greeting, scattered across the lichen and rock.</p><p>“I can smell the fen,” Tillian said, clambering into place. “It must get wetter up ahead.” Her weight wobbled, craning tall. “What makes a <span class="u">wheep-wheep-wheep</span> sound?”</p><p>“That's likely sylphs. They gather anywhere there are mosses to eat. Watch your feet – sylphs hide in plain sight when they're not in the air.”</p><p>How ridiculous, telling Tillian to watch her own footing. A ferrin couldn't harm a tough-shelled sylph short of attempting to eat it. Peregrine's long-clawed feet carried extra weight, so he had no one to caution but himself; the inanity burned in him like a bad meal.</p><p>“All right,” Tillian said anyway. “The bushes must be old here. They're rattling like they're dry even though– Stop, <span class="u">stop</span>!”</p><p>Peregrine seized, dropping back onto his braced tail. Nothing lay under his raised foot but grey rock and–</p><p>Tillian peered down. “Is that a sylph?”</p><p>It was a stick-shaped body, mottled with lichen-dull colours, shimmering where its clear wings caught light. Hiding in plain sight, indeed. Peregrine stepped around it, placing his feet careful in the muskeg. “Yes. They watch folk when they're alive, though. The easiest way to sight them is by the sparkle in their eyes.”</p><p>“It's– Oh.” Fur brushed against his neck as Tillian turned. She likely watched the still little body in their wake, mourning that no one had helped it.</p><p>“We'll see more of them around here,” Peregrine said. “The same as that one. Sylphs are betweenkind, so they catch gripthia, as well. The only time they aren't good fortune is when they turn up dead.”</p><p>Tillian was silent. The thought occured to Peregrine that she had never seen a sylph before – she had only heard aemets' passing mention of lucky skybugs, and maybe spun her own thoughts of how sylphs chirped and played in the air. There was no end of what Tillian still had to see, awful and wondrous and everything in between; that was how ferrin lived, always learning.</p><p>“Stop, please? I'd like to run for a while.”</p><p>“I won't be walking long.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Peregrine knelt long enough for her to leap down. He carried on walking with Tillian bounding alongside him, her ears cupped forward, searching. She was right, this time – he would get farther if he had less weight to carry.</p><p>He spent his measure of time walking. Taking off again used too much firecasting, forced too hot into his veins – everything turned straight to ash when it burned too hot. But Fenwater wasn't far off and a thermal showed him welcome mercy, huge under his wings.</p><p>The woodland crawled closer, round oak canopies emerging from the mass of leaves, crop rows showing their white dots of cotton. It certainly looked like a marsh town: cool and shadowed, encircled by pond and creek surfaces. Sick folk with wet feet lived there. The flapping came easier when Peregrine thought that way.</p><p>A line led toward Fenwater proper, winding vague through the rocks. It thickened into a sure-worn road once it got within a stone's throw of the homes, as though this path needed people nearby to lend it constitution. Peregrine landed hard in the Fenwater street, the relief in his wings drowning out the sting of striking earth.</p><p>“It's quiet,” Tillian said.</p><p>It looked quiet. Trees shivered as a breeze ran through them; tied board homes clung to their trunks, completely still. A dry leaf fled from Peregrine's toeclaws, away down the deserted road.</p><p>“I hear a crow. And roosting pigeons.” Tillian wormed into his neck feathers. “That's all, I think.”</p><p>“An ill town doesn't act as usual.” Peregrine eyed each door curtain he passed: most of them stirred loose in the breeze, untied and abandoned. A stuffed toy lay inside a doorway, crumpled exactly as its owner had let it fall. “The townsfolk are here, they're simply huddled somewhere. That smell is hearth smoke, isn't it?” There was a scant taste of burning at the edge of each breath, a flavour different from Peregrine's own fire.</p><p>“Yes, it's from fresh-burning wood. Oh, there are some voices now – they're coming from the big house up ahead.”</p><p>They were in the trees' shade now, walking between two strings of wood-boarded homes. Peregrine's vision adjusted to the darkness, sharpening just as movement stirred the door curtain up ahead and an aemet girl hurried out. As she caught sight of them, her eyes rabbit-widened, her mouth forming a ring.</p><p>“Oh, apologies!” Her speaking pitch cut the ear din nearly as well as Tillian could. She hurried closer, tugging her crumpled tunic straight. “I wasn't paying mind.”</p><p>“It's fine!” Tillian leaned forward. “We just arrived a moment ago! We're looking for Rose the mage, please.”</p><p>“That's my name and my title.” She tried miserably to smile, lifting a sprout-coloured palm to Tillian. “I'm Rose Tellig. Welcome to Fenwater.”</p><p>This girl – barely older than the ferrin on his shoulder, if Peregrine cared to wager – was Rose, the leader and mage. This girl had only a handful of ferrin to help her and had to rush out herself to greet newcomers, regardless of what was going on in that cursed house. Peregrine's jaw tightened: Bright and Dark above, this wouldn't happen in any kind arrangement.</p><p>Tillian recited their names and her own job – wordsounds like a familiar tune – she took Rose's offered hand. “We've brought supplies from Opens. Ethen says best wishes, and Verdana watch you.”</p><p>Rose looked up at Peregrine. There was not a sliver of pity, for once – only moist realization.</p><p>“An earferrin– Oh, you've flown all this way, good Ruelle, you didn't need to do that! Fenwater thanks you, truly.”</p><p>Of all the times to tell others they didn't need to fuss. Peregrine nodded. “No great trouble.” He pried a pouch knot loose.</p><p>Taking her hand back, standing there frail and staring, Rose looked between Peregrine and his earferrin. “You don't need, erm ...?”</p><p>“Your voice is high enough for Peregrine to hear,” Tillian said. “Just don't speak too fast, all right?”</p><p>“Of course.” Accepting the cargo pouch Peregrine held, strain pulling her skinny arms taut, Rose tried again to smile. She wasn't much good at it. “Apologies, I need to go see to folk. But please use my home as yours! It's that one over there, tied around the sweetnut tree. Rest however you need.”</p><p>The false creases vanished from Rose's smile while she offered everything she had. Perhaps she would grow to be a sure-rooted mage, with a demeanor like that, but distant somedays were the least of anyone's concerns. Peregrine parted ways from her, with Tillian shuffling restless on his shoulder.</p><p>The Fenwater chromepiece sat well removed from the mage home; in this village, dozens could gather to check the hour's hue and still not disturb their working caretaker. And inside, Rose's home was laid out neater than most mages' – or, at least, fresh herbs spread on cloth looked more pleasant than a jumble in a storage box, closer related to art than clutter. It all seemed to match their glimpse of Rose, the girl who wanted her village to seem pleasant.</p><p>Sirriana Breeli Call Me Breeli followed them in. This one was an older ferrin, wise-eyed and wiry-furred, with a little wild in her movement. Valuable as an ally, surely. She chattered joy at their presence, called Tillian <span class="u">kit</span>, and hurried back to Rose's service.</p><p>It was quiet, then; Peregrine didn't need Tillian to tell him so. Hearth coals hid under drifts of ash, but the home's air still hung fire-warm and the copper boiling pail held water hot enough for passable tea. Every sitting cushion was well-loved enough to look friendly and Breeli had assured them Rose wouldn't miss a few mouthfuls of anything.</p><p>“I think I could eat nothing but acorns,” Tillian said. She held her bowl toward Peregrine. “Try these, they're mild.”</p><p>The thought of food weighing inside him made his neck feathers rise. Peregrine took two acorns, his wingshoulder protesting the reaching movement. “When you said you wanted to help, did you mean it?”</p><p>Tillian stared, ears melting toward her neck. “Of course I meant it. The demon closes up their throats, you said, right?”</p><p>He grunted agreement. “It's a terrible sickness.” He popped the nuts into his mouth, sucked their glaze, and watched the thatch ceiling's unmovement.</p><p>“I ...” She must have hopped toward him; her voice shrank and drew nearer. “I don't hear as much coughing. It's not like in Opens. It just sounds wrong here, it <span class="u">smells</span> wrong.”</p><p>Peregrine couldn't smell anything but his mouthful of honeyed acorns and mint tea. Perhaps that was best.</p><p>“Um.” Soft touch on his thigh, like hesitation. “I'm going to go look, all right? Just to see what's happening. I'll only be a moment.”</p><p>He shifted his weight on a cushion as worn as he was. “That's fine.”</p><p>He watched Tillian go, her lollop building speed in the open road, white-tipped ears lifting to take in the whole land. She would catch wind of information and find someone to sit beside. She would listen diligent, and learn something. With new opportunities, she would grow always more clever.</p><p>Peregrine had nowhere to be in this town, he realized like swallowing a stone. He had flown here and delivered goods, and he rested now for the sake of a flight back. Peregrine only sat and ate so there would be fuel inside him for his wings, the wings that knotted up and ignored him, the wings he had let rot away. Bitterness overtook his mouth and the honeyed nuts were useless against it. If he wanted to be of use to Fenwater, Peregrine only needed to go outside, spread his wings, and continue pushing forward.</p><p>He looked around Rose's home for another moment. The Great Gem's light fell outside the door, scattered through treetops, midday gold like flecks of Giala's paint. Tillian's cup of tea sat abandoned, going cool. Peregrine took more acorns; their crunch vibrated down his jaw, nearly like a sound.</p><p>No more wasting away, he spat at himself. He rose, wiped his cup clean in the wash basin, and left. The chromepiece showed him the exact hue of the light, enough to count how many moments he had remaining. He could travel alone if he tried; there was hardly a korvi alive who hadn't worked for a night's keep, as though earning a bed was Peregrine's only trouble.</p><p>Charging a firecasting spark, hackling against the cool shadows, Peregrine left the child-mage's home. Branches swayed around him, green everywhere. He listened, despite the sensation of foolishness boiling inside him. Tillian said there was little to hear in Fenwater – of course she thought that when she heard the orchestra of the land, constant in every moment. She must have found noises extraordinary about as often as Peregrine marvelled at sand grains under his feet.</p><p>A crow, she said. There the bird was in Peregrine's memory, calling gruff in the distant glade. There had to be wind, stirring leaves that have rustled in answer. He could see a sight and match a sound to it, but memory couldn't help him find his earferrin in this moment, or let him hear his own name called. Memory couldn't do anything in the here and now, not even offer a simple hello-and-how-are-you: this was why the word <span class="u">crippled</span> tasted so rank.</p><p>Peregrine should have paid closer attention when he still had mining relatives to learn from. <span class="u">You'll miss your ears when they're gone</span>, his old cousins had said in gruff voices, their earferrin smiling sympathy. Perhaps there had been some advice hidden in their commentary, not that Peregrine had the patience to listen back then; he tried to remember and found no clear words to follow.</p><p>A few steps brought him to the door of the Fenwater sickhouse. Voices threaded into the ear din – Tillian and Rose's voices, enough sounds to show him the misty shape of a conversation. Light within the darkness caught Peregrine's eye, the gold pool around the hearth coals, the highlights on sleeping figures. One aemet shook, coughing, a spiny fist pressed to her mouth.</p><p>Rose hurried toward Peregrine, laying a hand on the angled doorway pole. “Good Ruelle, do you need anything?”</p><p>He glanced past her, at all the bony folk under in blankets and at the ferrin placing cloths on foreheads. Tillian sat at a water bucket across the room, back toward him, arms working; her ears lay folded with concentration. Meanwhile, Rose bothered with pleasantries when she needed every friend she could get.</p><p>“Call me Peregrine. That should do fine.”</p><p>Rose blinked. “Of course. Apologies.”</p><p>Whatever she lacked, Rose had no shortage of apologies. Peregrine nodded toward Tillian. “How is she?”</p><p>“She–” Rose followed his line of sight. “Oh, I didn't mean to distract your earferrin! She wanted to help.”</p><p>“It's fine. I'd hardly stop her while she's worrying for someone.”</p><p>“She,” and Rose paused to choose ginger words, “does seem to have a good heart for this sort of work.”</p><p>Someone must have taught Rose to think this way, someone who raised her as an heir to a way of life. She looked sure of her assessment, like she drew the answer from rich soil. It was good that Rose had faith in her new ally, then.</p><p>“Tillian knows how to use bright healing stones,” Peregrine said. “That should be of help.”</p><p>Rose's mouth worked, and she shook her head just enough to stir her antennae tips. “It would. But I couldn't possibly, Peregrine, she's your–”</p><p>“Tillian. When you can.”</p><p>Snapping to attention, Tillian looked to him and nodded. She gave three words to an assisting kitten, passed away a dripping cloth, and bounded to Peregrine's feet.</p><p>“Um, it's been more than a moment.” She straightened, lacing her hands. “Sorry.”</p><p>“It's no matter. But I'll need to make Opens before nightfall, if I plan to.”</p><p>“If there's anything you two need,” Rose tried, “Before you go–”</p><p>Peregrine lifted a hand and said, before his courage faded, “Tillian. You should stay.”</p><p>Her face fell. “I'm sorry, I'll–!”</p><p>“No,” Rose cried, “we couldn't!”</p><p>The pleading voices sank claws into his heart, turning his reasoning grey and unsavoury – Peregrine stood no chance against girls' wide eyes and he never had.</p><p>“Listen.” He folded his arms. “I won't carry you away when your hands are needed here. And if I stayed, it'd be a waste of wings. We both ought to do what we can. For everyone's sake.”</p><p>Tillian stared wetly. She shuffled a step closer. “Will you be all right? By yourself, I mean?”</p><p>“I'll manage.”</p><p>“You just need to pay enough attention.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Peregrine untied his pouch. This wouldn't make complete sense to Tillian but he needed to do it, simply needed it as his insides needed air. He fished under packages and loose ends until smooth metal met his fingers.</p><p>“I'll be back the moment I can, whenever Ethen has run out of things to need me for. But in case ...”</p><p>Peregrine knelt, gripping the copper bead tight. Copper meant luck; its sheen caught the attention of even the gods and the Legend Creatures. Every korvi old enough to fly kept a piece on their person, a clip or bangle or a raw copper lump, some token of hopes and well-wishes. Peregrine would simply have to manage without his piece.</p><p>“Look after this for me,” he said.</p><p>Tillian's ears wilted farther at the sight of the round copper bead in his hand – Giala wore dozens just like this one – and she smiled her answer. She knew enough to act like she understood.</p><p>“How do I carry it, though? Maybe– Oh, what if I put it on here?” She untied her necklace and held it toward Peregrine.</p><p>“It doesn't matter where a person wears it.” He threaded the copper onto the cord, removing the hawk-eye bead from central pendant place. The hawk-eye glistened blue in his palm; he clenched a fist around it, and he gave the necklace back as a completely different trinket. “As long as you have some copper with you, and you know you've got it. I'll hold on to this.”</p><p>“So you've got something from me, like I've got something from you?”</p><p>How poetic, Peregrine thought, managing not to let his grimace show on his face. He never knew how to end poems. “Something like that.”</p><p>He got to his feet. The copper didn't match Tillian's eyes in the slightest and it clashed with her grey-cool fur; it was a sight Peregrine found he liked.</p><p>“Just do what you can. And Rose.”</p><p>She held a hand to her breastbone and stared field-wide, like only politeness held her from scurrying away. “Yes?”</p><p>“Let her look after you.”</p><p>The land must not have done these things for Rose enough. She stared a little longer, and her voice shook as she said, “Thank you, both.”</p><p>Peregrine would have been fed and watered like a pampered horse, if a quiet wild ferrin hadn't approached Rose to ask advice. She bit her lip before answering something about the bedding laid over the ill aemets, some detail the mage needed to preside over. Gods help her figure it all out.</p><p>There was no sense in seeing Peregrine off, but Rose and Tillian did it regardless. A gesture went missing between the three of them, something deeper than Peregrine's farewell nod. Damned if any of them knew which gesture it was but Peregrine should have known, after all the years passed through his hands – it was hardly the responsibility of the young to know customs for him.</p><p>“Last I saw Opens,” he said, “it was full of folk busying themselves. I'm sure Ethen will have someone swifter come back to you with aid, as soon as can be managed.” He was too cowardly to look at them as he spoke. He stoked his firecasting, watching clouds soar on the wind. “Best of fortune.”</p><p>“You, too,” Tillian said.</p><p>Peregrine couldn't stand around regretting this any longer; he couldn't keep thinking, so he leaped and flapped and burned up into the sky. Upper air hardly touched his hide before his muscles tightened, resisting the downward stroke of each wingbeat. Peregrine didn't have long. He had no one to deceive but himself.</p><p>He followed the first westerly wind current he found, hoping for updrafts and plenty of them. If he focused, Fyrian help him, he would reach Opens or wherever he was supposed to be.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The beating of Peregrine's wings held Tillian's attention, a thudding sound waning in the distant sky. Peregrine would be tired after all this flying. Her otherfather was girded thick with strength; he would never let his tiredness stop him, but the fact of it wouldn't be any less true.</p><p>Tillian looked at Rose, at her fingers resettling together, at the antennae arcing over her head. Maybe Rose was dragging her attention away from the wingbeats, too. Tillian imagined airsense to be a precise sense like sight – clear and present, a streak of cherry preserves in plain batter. If a person could see air, maybe there would be wide red streaks in the sky above this unmoving village.</p><p>Rose sighed; it was a blunt sound on serrated aemet teeth, nothing like a korvi's hiss. “Tillian? I should give you a proper lesson in caring for sick folk.”</p><p><span class="u">Do what you can</span>, Peregrine memory-said.</p><p>This was Tillian's job for the time being. She wondered where to place herself: Rose was slim-built even for an aemet, with sloping shoulders covered by clothes and more clothes and a waxy insect shell under it all. Even if Tillian could sit on Rose and keep her grip, Rose didn't have the muscles or the strong-bracing tail needed to balance top-heaviness. The two of them needed to tinker out a way to work together.</p><p>“Just tell me what I need to listen for,” Tillian said, “all right? You can tap me if you want me paying attention. Or call me if I'm not close enough.”</p><p>“All right.” Rose firmed, pressing her mouth. “I'll be sure to.”</p><p>They walked together. Tillian trotted on four feet, breathing in the oak-and-muck smell of a borrowed hometown, following alongside Rose's smooth-gliding shoes.</p><p>“Well, then,” Rose tried, thought creasing her brow, “what do you do for Peregrine?”</p><p>“I listen from his shoulder.” But that was the starch-plain answer everyone knew. Tillian thought farther. “And I speak for him, too. He has a hard time with conversations when there's a lot of noise around us, so I sometimes just answer for him and tell him the important parts afterward.”</p><p>“Forgive me.” Rose fluttered her hands. “I know what earferrin do. I met some of your good kind a handful of years ago. What I mean is–” Thought tugged harder on her face. “When you're on Peregrine's shoulder, listening, how do you figure out what to tell him?”</p><p>Tillian never needed to figure her work out – not by the meaning Rose meant, not the way a riddle needed clean-cut figuring out. She only needed to collect sounds and let the right Peregrine-translation come to mind. She turned the thought over, with her feet and Rose's shoes scratching an even cadence. Strange to think this much about what she did all the time: it was like wondering how to breathe.</p><p>“I grew up with Peregrine,” she decided. “He's been the way he is for a lot longer than I've been around and he doesn't try to hide that. So it's easy to tell what he's hearing and what he's not hearing. I'm just paying attention for the sounds I know he can't hear, and I tell him if any of them matter. Does that make sense?”</p><p>Rose murmured an understanding note. “If Peregrine were here now? What would you tell him?”</p><p>“The breeze is picking up, it sounds steady enough to be a good flying wind. A crow is calling to our back-left, like it's found something to eat – but I wouldn't tell him that unless we were looking for carrion pieces like bones. And someone coughed in the sick house up just now. A thick cough like they inhaled a dandelion head.” Tillian pivoted her ears. That felt to be everything. “I don't usually mention sounds like footsteps. He can tell how that would sound by the feel of the dirt. And after you left, I think I'd tell him you make a little <span class="u">oh</span> sound when someone comes to your side by surprise.”</p><p>Rose blinked. “That's important enough to mention?”</p><p>“It's a more useful than you'd think! Small things can say a lot.”</p><p>Which was like telling Rose that the sky was yellow, or that rivers were wet. Mages always looked after small things. But knowing those small things – knowing them in words, not leaving them in a jumbled pile of intuition – was another matter entirely.</p><p>“That's good to know,” Rose said, quiet.</p><p>They reached the sick house and the wrong smell rushed out to greet Tillian. She could put words to it now: chitinous skin, musty used tea herbs, breath full of slow rot, a whiff of urine from the nearby forest and everyone's trembling worry. Breeli and Niro glanced up, ears set in agreement. The kittens didn't, but they had their chores to focus on.</p><p>Tillian hopped to bedside and used the motions of her new job, leaning over the sleeping fellow, putting fingers to each cloth laid over his skin. These cloths felt wet and cool, particularly the one on foreheads. Wet and cool was good; keeping these fever-blighted people comfortable was a matter of thinking backward from a korvi would want.</p><p>“Tillian?”</p><p>She sat up, ears rising toward Rose's careful voice. Husky breathing sounds pooled in the air between them and there was an odd sound in this people-pool – a squeak, thin as the axels of a wooden cart but fleshier, more alive. Tillian darted between the scattered beds, to Rose and the person she knelt guardian over.</p><p>“Since you're trained at this sort of thing,” Rose murmured, one nettle-thin hand laid on the aemet man's chest, “please listen. Do you hear the sound this fellow is making?”</p><p>The squeak came from his throat, escaping every time he breathed, tightening his sleeping face so that creases reached toward his head hair. Tillian nodded, her ears falling – his sound stirred an anxious spark in her chest.</p><p>Then plantcasting flowed out from Rose's hands. It lit her fingers the colour of emeralds, filling the air with spinach-rich scent, and burrowed glowing into the man's chest. His breathing became quiet but still congested; his face eased back to youth.</p><p>“That's the sound of the demon's claws tightening,” Rose said. “It means a person's throat is sagging in on itself and they're not breathing well.”</p><p>Tillian shuffled closer, watching Rose withdraw her hands – electricity tingled down her back like the demon had touched her, too. “Is it like a bad chill, the way it strikes in their throats?”</p><p>Humming, Rose shook her head. “This demon numbs flesh, like basilisk venom, but the way the illness spreads inside the body is truly more like a plant's poison. That's why Verdana's skills work on it.” Nervousness soaked back into Rose's movement; she wrung her hands so her thumbnails dug at each other. “This wasn't a bad case, just now. It's simply better to help folk as soon as possible. It gets louder when they can't– It– It sounds rougher, and worse. You'll know when you hear it. Please tell me if you hear that sound?”</p><p>“Of course.” The rasp clung in Tillian's memory. She would be listening for someone else's dear life.</p><p>The man stirred, his voice a plaster-thick struggling.</p><p>“Oh, no,” Rose said, thin and pleading. “It's fine, Cliffton, relax.” Her hands hovered near his chest, then she touched the cloth on his forehead. “Please, rest.”</p><p>His eyes slit open – green and glittering – and he croaked something like <span class="u">can't find him anywhere</span>.</p><p>“I'll find him, it's no trouble. Fahras? Come over here, please?”</p><p>Tillian looked where Rose did, to the large ferrin pouring water and setting his empty bucket down careful. He brushed past Tillian, glancing an apology to her; this Fahras fellow smelled stale with nerves.</p><p>“How is he?” Fahras shuffled closer, ears low against his strong white shoulders.</p><p>“He's well, thus far. But I think he's dreaming strangely, if he's calling for you. Oh, Fahras? This is Tillian Sri Call Her Tillian. He's Fahras Firrigas Call Him Fahras.” Rose pronounced ferrin names like ropes strung across a chasm.</p><p>Fahras lifted himself enough to smile. “Welcome to Fenwater.”</p><p>Tillian nodded. And then they didn't have to play at any more than that; Fahras turned away, leaning in to hear Cliffton's slurred words. They must have been close, to wish each other present that way. Tillian imagined fond memories lacing them closer together.</p><p>Rose looked between all of them: if aemetkind had long ears, hers would have hung low, too. “Have you got a moment, Fahras? The brothers' cloths are still wet, but could you wash the three of them down with some of the mint water? It'll help their fevers.”</p><p>“That's fine,” Fahras said. Cliffton's hand wavered near his head and he craned upward to meet it, before heading off for supplies.</p><p>“Cliffton and the two fellows beside him,” Rose explained low, as she left that bedside and Tillian followed, “Are the Irving brothers. They and Fahras are a family.”</p><p>It was plain to see, Tillian thought. They turned a corner, following a path through the field of beds.</p><p>“And Fahras is the hardest worker the gods have ever looked on. Ask him if you need water or firewood.” Rose paused to listen, heard nothing alarming, and peeled her wringing hands apart. “You and the other ferrin should worry about simple care, for now. You can all show the kittens how to look after the folk beginning their fevers. Fahras dug a new latrine straight behind this house, and there's cotton to use if they can't stand.”</p><p>This was like when a person got so old that their joints rusted; their minds scattered like dust; they needed their family milling steady around them. Tillian hummed, her ears twisting. “But I should be making sure to listen, shouldn't I? In case someone makes that squeaking sound?”</p><p>Rose hesitated, her throat working an answer upward. “We should both be listening. But the fever is stealthier than the poison. It only takes a little quiet boiling and in the time it takes to click, a person might– They might not have their sight anymore. Or their stamina, or any thoughts at all for the rest of their lives.”</p><p>Tillian slept off the one fever she had ever faced. It had only taken a nap for her to wake up fresher and stronger – or had she ever fared worse than that? As a new kit, maybe. When she lived in a cloud of herbed steam and korvi friends' worry. She didn't remember much from that time, just the wholesome feeling of her friends' hands wrapping her; she didn't know the full brunt of being sick. Maybe ferrin couldn't, even in their worst moments, be as sick as these people were going to get.</p><p>Tillian lifted her ears, gathering sound toward her, the ragged-breathing Fenwater folk and the kittens' scampering paws. “All right, I'll just do whatever needs looking after. Um.” She pointed. “He sounds like he'll be squeaking soon.”</p><p>Rose jerked toward the man's bedside. Her fingers splayed on his throat like testing him for a rancid spot, and her plantcasting filled the air crisp, lighting them both with green. It was a healthier shade of green than the man's skin, and healthier than any healing leaf a person could eat – it looked like pure lifeforce given from one to another.</p><p>Tillian couldn't cast like that. She could only use the plainest form of electricasting, the raw energy that crackled inside her when she got scared. Electricasting had helped ferrin defend themselves from hunting beasts since the land was new. It was too sharp-edged to heal anything, but whatever kind a being was and whatever their element, the heart of casting was the same: it came out of living spirits with a determined need to <span class="u">do</span> something. Tillian had coaxed bright healing energy out of hunks of rose quartz before – she remembered all the soul-deep wheedling to start it, and the full-body drag to make it stop.</p><p>Rose was doing that every time a villager began to wheeze. Hauling elemental strength from one body to another, over and over again. The glow faded now, back to pale flesh and firelight; Rose's fingers curled tentative as they lifted away.</p><p>“You're going to need more help with the casting,” Tillian said. She held her ears level against a sinking feeling – she didn't know how long a mage could spend casting before they were dry and bare inside.</p><p>Rose looked up from the man. “You said that Ethen is laying down plans with East Hotrock, didn't you? Those folk are my casting help.”</p><p>“I mean before they get here, in case you're too busy. I should probably practice with the healing stones before you really need me.”</p><p>Rose stared for long instants, the flavourless time before understanding came. Then terror washed over her face, a pale and gut-wrenching blankness. Tillian hopped closer and put a paw to Rose's clothed leg; she was a threadwidth from touching Rose's skin and she was scared, like this unspoken fear might catch her aflame.</p><p>“Stones,” Rose breathed. “I have light and dark stones, but I should have been charging plant healing stones. I should have been charging them yesterday while I had the casting to spare, oh, dear Verdana.”</p><p>“Kit?” Breeli paused to give a reassuring pat to one of her curious-staring sons, before darting over, through and around the beds. She stopped at Tillian's side with a question-barbed look; all Tillian could do was let concern show in the cant of her ears. Their dry worry scented the air.</p><p>“I know what I was forgetting, Breeli,” Rose said. “Plant healing stones. I should have been stockpiling my casting all this time, how could I forget that?”</p><p>“Oh.” Breeli laid her hands on her hips. “Well, guess we were looking too hard at the forest to see that tree.”</p><p>“We'll need a lot of stones. If good Peregrine's delivery isn't enough to last–”</p><p>“Don't start that. You're doing what you can and that's plenty to chew on as it is. Should I get you some stones to get going on?”</p><p>Agony squirmed on Rose's face. “If you would. I have some uncharged quartz in a box.”</p><p>“The white ones that don't have a little lightfly spark inside them, right?”</p><p>“That's right.”</p><p>Breeli was gone then, lolloping off toward the door. Rose had nothing to say while she worried, while she sank to the ground and folded her legs together with careful pains. Tillian found the nerve to put her hands over Rose's larger ones; aemet skin felt so odd, more like coincidentally warm fishleather than a being full of living blood.</p><p>“She's right,” Rose said. “I just have to do what I can.”</p><p>“That's all anybody can do.” That was too dry to be comforting. Tillian dug through tumbleweed possibilities, all the off-handed things everyone had said in the last day. “There are other messenger korvi coming, aren't there?”</p><p>“Two korvi friends left here with the exodus news. I'm not sure if either of them will return. Syril said nothing of the sort, and even Chiko may be needed elsewhere. It's fine.” Strength suddenly yanked Rose's tendons tight. “I can charge stones in between helping folk, at least for a few more hours. Come with me to check more of them, would you, Tillian?”</p><p>She met Tillian's gaze and her eyes were distant; Tillian thought of squirrels, tearing through leaf litter for a meal they might not have hidden at all. This was what it looked like when a mage didn't have a wise, ready answer. It shouldn't have been possible – a village without answers and aid was just a bunch of people being scared together.</p><p>“Whatever you need,” Tillian said.</p><p>Rose bit her lip, standing, her feet planted on the sure earth. “As I said, just take care of the wet cloths. Any tea or broth aemet folk can swallow is a help, too–”</p><p>They moved one step and Rose paused by small mound of bedding. “Clover? Are you awake?”</p><p>A mumble answered her. Rose went to the bedside, her hands falling onto the little girl like gentle-drifting leaves. This had to be the one who was whimpering in her sleep when Tillian first came into the sickhouse – the unmistakeable sound of bad dreams. Worry filled Tillian, molasses-thick; she hopped closer.</p><p>Clover turned her face up from the blankets. “I'm trying to sleep,” she rasped. “Sorry.”</p><p>“Would you like to hear a legend?”</p><p>“Mother was telling one.” She lifted a young-bony arm to cough against, and the wet cloth between her antennae fell askew. “But she fell asleep in the middle.”</p><p>Tillian couldn't see Rose's face from this angle. Just the brown tunic cloth stretched over her bent, shell-covered back, and the antennae arching around her tight-tied hair. But Rose must have been smiling, because she paused like sweet-clean meadow air.</p><p>“If you tell me which legend it is, I could finish it? Tillian,” and Rose glanced over her shoulder, “you'll tell me if I'm needed, won't you?”</p><p>“I will,” Tillian said. “Don't worry.”</p><p>She turned away, sitting on her haunches to face the room. It was the same rolling field of people as before, draped with bits and pieces of wet linens, coughs shaking free in between hoarse breaths. Breeli's kits tottered up and down the rows, watching careful the supplies in their hands, footsteps faltering each time a cloth dragged or water slopped over a cup's edge. So many sounds for Tillian to gather into her head, each one a fluttering maple seed. She closed her eyes, and listened.</p><p>The legend Rose told was the story of the High Gods' great feud, a thousand lifetimes before they agreed to share the Great Gem. That was what the legend sounded like to Tillian, anypace, from the few phrases she listened to; she didn't know any other legends that mentioned a banished god trapped in electricstone, deep in the earth. Great Dark spent a forever down there, alone as Bright intended. Both of them stewed and resented. Dark broke free and they lashed out at each other until they were tired enough to regret, and regretful enough to forgive.</p><p>With that, the time of hostility was over. The High Gods talked away their troubles and worked together, and that was how it still was to this day. Everyone knew that legend by the time they could walk, aemet and korvi and ferrin alike. It was a pleasant story to listen to, a blanket spun from familiar yarn. Even if it sent a pang through Tillian's heart every time, thinking of great Dark's time in a cage.</p><p>Tillian turned her ears away from the words. Rustling called her attention, but it was just the man Rose had warded breathing trouble away from already – he stirred in his gel-thick sleep. His face looked the same as Clover's, two matching curves in the firelight. Then, this was Clover's father, said the sureness building in Tillian's insides. And the woman lying log-still beside Clover could be her mother: that would explain all of their scents matching so well. What a considerate thought, putting a family's beds nearest to each other, with their child guarded in the center. It was like ferrin nesting together – just spread thinner, so that everyone could have their needed air.</p><p>Tillian went to the father man on four silent feet. He rasped at the low edge of his breathing. He had carved-sharp cheekbones, and a tired brown colour to his hair, and a frown digging lines into his face. Tillian gathered the man's damp cloths and, after a trip to a mint-fragrant water bucket, smoothed them back over his skin.</p><p>He muttered, a bur of sleep-sound caught in his throat. How strange for a person frown in their sleep, when they were supposed to be restoring and strengthening themselves. Maybe he frowned like Peregrine: when he didn't need to frown at all, when he was thinking things he'd never say.</p><p><span class="u">Don't fuss about it</span>, maybe this man was thinking in his dreams. <span class="u">I'll manage</span>.</p><p>“It's no trouble,” Tillian said. She tugged the cloths flat on his arms, so they clung translucent to his skin. “And we need to mind your fever right now.”</p><p>The man exhaled; a farm-clean trace clung to his breath, the smell of leftover plantcasting. Premonition called Tillian's attention, a nudge to her hearing like a drum player's hands brushing the skins.</p><p>“She'll look after that rasp for you. Rose, I mean. It's going to be fine, we're all here.”</p><p>A phlegm-wet hitch caught his breath. Peregrine would do that – he would harrumph and let folk think what they wanted. Was this man swallowing a prickly comment? Skies, no, he was only clearing his throat.</p><p>Tillian smiled, pulling the covers straight around the man. His eyes ran in circles under their lids, trapped and searching. Goddess only knew what he dreamed about – grass, maybe. Fields, wide open and free.</p><p>“–And Bright saw then what their fighting had done, all their pain spilled over the land like blood.” Rose had a perfect voice for legends; she spoke like she was weaving threads. “He talked with Dark for four days. They spoke deeper than mortals could ever understand, and ... Well, then ... I suppose they reached peace and all was well.”</p><p>That was shorter than the ending Tillian knew. Likely because Clover's eyes were closed, and her breathing sleep-even under her sheets. Tillian shuffled to that bedside and sat, watching Rose bite thoughtful at her lip.</p><p>“Can you show me how to use the stones? In a while, I mean. No one's squeaking yet, but,” and she glanced to the man beside Clover, “whenever someone needs it.”</p><p>Rose looked where Tillian did. Her gaze fled, a magnet stone opposing.</p><p>“Of course.” Her voice dropped to a gossip hum. “That's Vilhelm, husband of the Saranstas family. He's Clover's father. The demon found him first, out in the marsh water.” Rose stood, her hands fussing useless at her clothes. “Pay close mind to him, will you, Tillian?”</p><p>Grumbling wasn't a sound Tillian ignored. She nodded. And as she lolloped along the bed rows, she listened more careful than ever.</p><p>The hours were marked by Breeli's needle-bright comments, and Niro's mild smiles of thanks, and Fahras's uneasy glances when he had a moment to look somewhere other than the bottom of a water pail. It wasn't so different from home. Fenwater could be one great proud clan hiding under the oaks together – but what would its name be, Tillian wondered? Greenwind? Carryhealth? Rose was the head of the village, so she should rightfully pick.</p><p>Tillian was twisting the water out of a cloth as she realized it: korvi made clans. She didn't know whether a clan could be a clan if there were no dragonkind in it.. No answer felt right. She knew what a finished clan looked like, full of caring family, but she couldn't imagine how to choose the pieces.</p><p>Lark songs filtered in from the plains, throaty sounds in the golden afternoon. One of the kittens – Chiboko Bochi, Tillian was fairly sure, the one with grey tips like his father – asked for her help fetching a knot of firewood to the hearth.</p><p>“Mama Breeli said it's important to be careful.” Chiboko Bochi told her. He nudged the log into the coals, leaning brave into the heat. “Don't drag the wood, 'cause they don't like that.”</p><p>Wood was sacred to aemet people, a gift from Verdana herself. It had something to do with trees being Verdana's closest relatives and her faithful sentinels. Peregrine hadn't been able to answer any more than that. And asking a Skyfield aemet had seemed too bold, like peering under their clothes. Tillian watched the wood smoldering, and wondered if great Verdana watched everyone who put sticks into hearth fires.</p><p>“Now we do this.” Chiboko Bochi faced the hearth, placing his palms together, ears folding solemn. Tillian mimicked it, and they watched quiet as flames licked over the bark.</p><p>She had to ask: “Why?”</p><p>“I don't know.” Chiboko Bochi relaxed onto three feet and scratched his ear with his toes. “We just do. And I think aemet people say something when they put wood on, I dunno what.”</p><p>He trotted off. Tillian paused, let out a calming breath, and prayed to Verdana. Just a few clean words in her head, thanking the goddess for whatever it was Tillian was supposed to thank her for – sorry, High One, but she didn't know the details yet. She would do it properly next time. She would have this village-sized family show her how.</p><p>She called Rose over to bedsides, a handful each hour – at least, it began as a handful. Four, then six, then nine, until the rising pitch of the gripthia squeak was no surprise. Tillian could smell grass-fresh casting everywhere in the house, under the teeming presence of living people.</p><p>The second time Tillian changed Vilhelm's cloths, she was nearly done wringing the mint water out when the sound of kicked bedding caught her ears. She ran back to him with the dripping cloths bunched to her chest; Vilhelm reached out blindly, his eyes slitted open, liquid green.</p><p>He croaked, smearing wordsounds together. Tillian listened because that was what she did, and she sorted the sounds into gradual place. <span class="u">Can't carry the water</span>, Vilhelm was saying, over and over with his hand wrapped around a phantom bucket handle. He had plenty to worry about, just trying to get better, and on top of that he thought he had an errand to run.</p><p>Tillian hopped into his armpit, leaning over his clammy weight to spread the cloths. “No, we can take care of it. Please relax.”</p><p>Vilhelm shuddered, a cough stuck silent in his chest. Something loosened in him – all his glue and nails giving way – and he slumped back the knuckle-width he had managed to rise. He smelled as broad as sweat. It clashed with the mint. Tillian used one of the cloths to wash him, wiping up the sweat-smell from the lean lines of his arms and legs, wondering if she should move his underclothing and nudging under its edges as a compromise.</p><p>“There,” she said, spreading the rest of the cloths wet over Vilhelm's skin. The final one went over the dip in his collarbone, that spot heat puddled in. Warmth like that felt ordinary to Tillian's fingers, even familiar, even though it couldn't be the way a cooler-blooded aemet was supposed to feel. She thought for a moment, watching a frown crease around Vilhelm's mouth.</p><p>“We'll worry if you don't rest, you know.”</p><p>Vilhelm slurred. And then he laid still, and frowned. He must have hated doing what he was told.</p><p>Maybe he was thirsty, Tillian thought. She would reach out and mumble about water, too, if she were that hotly confused. She had already turned to leave, heading for the drinking water pail, when Vilhelm's last mumblings snapped into sense:</p><p>
  <span class="u">Gods help us.</span>
</p><p>Tillian stopped. She looked back at the quiet father man – he was resting like he had been told, his fever-glazed eyes closed now.</p><p>The gods couldn't help, not really. The gods provided forests and rivers and lightning and fire, then stood back to watch it all knot together with the land and the living creatures. That was the weird riddle of talking to the gods – the High Ones didn't even give specific advice when a person met them face-to-face in the woods. <span class="u">Do what you think is right</span>, the gods always said in genuine voices, and then carried on wandering their land. Tillian had heard from someone who heard it from someone else.</p><p>Great Verdana had to be worried for her tired, hurting children, even if she couldn't smite those worries away. There might be secret-small treatments that would let her help, sets of manners to play out between goddess and mortal; Tillian wouldn't know about that any more than she knew how to pray.</p><p>She sank to four feet, ears limp on her neck. The land was a rich-simmered pot of people who cared, and there were so many bowls to spread it all between. Maybe Tillian ought ask goddess Ambri for strength. She didn't recall any rules for that, and electricity tended to run anywhere it wanted to.</p><p>Breeli paused as she passed, splaying her ears. “Vilhelm, huh? Happy as flowers, that one.”</p><p>Tillian straightened up. “He doesn't seem mean, though.”</p><p>“Nah, of course he's not mean. He's got a whole gaggle of good folks around him.” Breeli hopped closer, and whispered, “Take your own advice, kit. Don't worry.”</p><p>Tillian stared.</p><p>Raising her hands, Breeli said, “It sounds like a treeful of nuts. But believe me, worrying doesn't do anybody any good.”</p><p>“I know.” Relief floated like lead in Tillian; she grasped her pendant and held metal in her hand, not her family stone. “I'm usually the one telling Peregrine not to worry.”</p><p>“Everybody needs to be told sometimes. S'just that worrying didn't do any good last time and it sure as striking won't help now.”</p><p>Tillian canted her head. “Last time?”</p><p>Only a smile out of Breeli, shot sideways while she looked around for eavesdroppers. This smile looked practiced, as worn-in as the crinkles between her eyes and her face. Maybe Breeli would feel like bedding straw if Tillian touched her, her fur brittle with sixteen or eighteen years' wisdom.</p><p>“Yeah, last time the demon hit. I was there for the end of it, better part of twelve years ago. I tripped across their old village and came with 'em them when they moved. Only half a dozen of 'em left at that point. Poor friends buried their dead all in one heap, under some ripped-up polegrass, and used the last of their strength to drag themselves here. They were scared. Thought running away would help.” Breeli looked to her sarong, retying a slipping knot in the love-worn orange cloth. “They're funny about death, you know. Aemets. Gods bless their hearts. I wish I'd had Niro with me back then, he knows a trick or four and the right plants can be a bushel of help.” She looked up, trying a tired smile on. “You've said hello to Niro, right? He's shy, but he's all honey once you get to know him. I guess that's like anyone, though, have to give 'em a lick to see what they're like.” She waved her hands. “Off I go, babbling! Do you need anything, kit?”</p><p>Tillian found her tongue about to repeat something, anything, a skimmed-off portion of what Breeli had said. She pushed the feeling away; she was only listening for herself right now. “I was just going to ask Rose about some things.”</p><p>“Make sure you get your rest while you can.” Breeli folded her ears serious. “The demon gets worse quick – it wouldn't be half as awful, otherwise. Rose is already putting mint in everything, even the steaming water, and you'd better believe that's not a friendly sign.”</p><p>The thought of herbed steam stirred the faded things Tillian had been thinking about these past days. She remembered a time when she hacked for hours and finally spat up a gob of the stickiness inside her, and then heaved in a deep breath that tasted like mint.</p><p>“We have steaming water? Please show me.”</p><p>Tillian couldn't place what she expected to see in the hearth coals. Something familiar, probably, an object she had seen filled with bubbling water before. Breeli brought her to Rose's steaming basin – the square, dented tin wider at its mouth than its base, with vine patterns stamped along its edges. It didn't match anything Tillian had ever seen in the Redessence home. Peregrine and Giala probably used a cooking pot; Peregrine would grumble about a plain pot faring just as well at the task as a fancy one.</p><p>“Well, here it is,” Breeli said. “There should be a handful of salt in there for every pail of water. Could be one of our scant handfuls or a heaped-full korvi hand for all I know, I'll have to watch Rose closer next time. The mint's less fussy, they just count out a few groups of four leaves.”</p><p>Arranging everything into groups of four – that was another hope-drenched habit people had when they wanted to call luck out of its hiding places. Tillian nodded. Token luck could never hurt.</p><p>“While we're thinking of water,” she said, “Do you know how to give a sick person a drink? When their throats are bad, I mean.”</p><p>“Well, good on you for not wanting to drown anyone. You just drip it into them, slow, with a cloth. Come on, I'll show you.”</p><p>Everyone with a trade had things to teach, ways and advice like berries red-ripe for the sharing. Breeli had to have a job in this village. Tillian just couldn't place what it was, sure as Breeli was in her motions, bounding up to everything and everyone with a mountain's worth of confidence. Maybe Breeli's job was to not worry, and to teach others to do the same.</p><p>While learning the drinking cloth trick, watching Breeli squeeze droplets into Vilhelm's open mouth, Tillian thought. Breeli had seen two terrible demon attacks within her ferrin lifetime. Legends needed more time than that to get told all across the land, because news needed to be patched together into a colourful enough story. That took aemet lifetimes, korvi lifetimes, eldens or fourteenyears, any amount of time wider than one ferrin could see the opposite side of. But Breeli held a small, quiet legend behind her eyes. She had met the people in the story. If this legend-awful gripthia struck so often, why hadn't Tillian heard about its passage, heard it as gossip in the streets?</p><p>Maybe because the demon last struck Fenwater twelve years ago: Tillian had only just been born back then. She had been a kitten learning to bide her time in the polegrass outside a mine, and learning to sit sure on Peregrine's shoulder. She learned which morsels of information mattered to Peregrine and how to sift them out of the gossip. By the time Tillian grew her adult fur and turned her attention to the neighbours' lives, there might not have been any talk of the fierce-striking demon left. Skyfield had good fortune, only needing to talk about the demon. Or maybe the people of Fenwater just had bad fortune. So many people and choices made up this story that Tillian couldn't tell where luck tangled into it.</p><p>She just didn't know enough. She wasn't doing her earferrin job if she didn't know about events as wide-grabbing as a gripthia outbreak. Maybe she could have left the mine and found out more, on all those days she waited for Peregrine – but no, he might have needed her. Tillian never could have made herself leave; she could practically smell the way prairie wind and guilt braided together.</p><p>Tillian sat on the edge of current things now, watching Breeli force drops of drinking water from between her hands, watching her stuff the cloth back into the cup and run a thought-sharp eye over Vilhelm. His chest spasmed like a cough, but no bark came out this time, either – only the first hair-lifting edges of a squeak.</p><p>“And here it is again,” Breeli sighed. “Vilhelm, I'd bless your hide but it's tough as dirt already, can't see a blessing doing any good. Are we using healing stones or having Rose do it?”</p><p>“Stones. As soon as Rose shows me how.”</p><p>“Heh, that's the spirit. Tell her to visit the Irvings next, if the two of you would. Kerester Keelas! Watch out for that, kit!” Breeli hopped off, with a last, wry edge of a smile and her ears too low to match her words.</p><p><span class="u">If the two of them would</span>. Rose and Tillian would have to be like salt and waterpepper: different as could be, but working perfectly together. Maybe Tillian was supposed to sit on Rose's shoulder after all. Maybe she could hold in a big breath of air so she was lighter, and cling close to Rose's vine-skinny shoulders. Tillian didn't need to try that to know it wouldn't work; holding onto people wasn't that easy. She and Rose would have to manage some other way, maybe just by Tillian following and watching upward.</p><p>She spotted Rose's smooth-walking form, coming through the door with a clacking handful of medicine bottles. Tillian ran to her. Breathing rasped all around them.</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He could stop at any moment he wished, his thoughts said in a coward-small voice. He could glide down to earth and be done with this sad pretense.</p><p>Peregrine bristled and stopped thinking words like those. His wings felt boneless but as long as he had fire – one ember, one spark, a tattered scrap of dignity – he would fly. He was supposed to be a messenger now.</p><p>That thought carried him for another moment, through the warm evening. Then a cramp sank deeper into his back, between his cords of flight muscle, gripping like it meant to peel tendon away from bone and dragging Peregrine's attention to a place where he couldn't see. This needed to stop – no one would drop dead if Peregrine landed for one god-banished moment.</p><p>He regretted it the instant his feet jarred against sod. He never used to give up so easily. Peregrine stood there, looking at houses' shapes in the bright-lit distance until his heaving breaths brought a little refreshment. Thermals were the answer, he supposed. If staying in the air was such dreadful travail, it meant he wasn't making proper use of thermals and he was stretching every furlong farther than necessary. That was what happened when a fellow put all his attention toward the earth: he went mine-soft and forgot the elementary ways of flight. Peregrine wasn't old so much as stupid.</p><p>He stoked his chest with enough firecasting to make his head swim. He leaped, flapped three stabbing times, and stumbled back to earth. Truly a fine mess. Coughing a wad of smoke onto the breeze, he walked, weeds folding under his toeclaws. Breeze touched his hide – like a cool, worried hand, like Peregrine would sear the whole land away if he kept at this nonsense.</p><p>A handful more days spent on flight practice would have helped him. Four more lavishings of arnica, and another four more trips over his customary Skyfield plains route: that might have been enough to let Peregrine remember what to do. But strike him for wanting a few trifling days even when he knew better, when he knew he was no messenger yet and all the hope ever garnered couldn't change that. And so Peregrine walked hard toward Opens, broken grass stalks nipping his feet with each step.</p><p><span class="u">You're doing fine</span>, Tillian might say. She was sorely absent on his shoulder. <span class="u">You've never flown that far in a day!</span></p><p>Not since her grandfather was a kitten. How peculiar that Peregrine had flown less and less in every year he had carried an earferrin; perhaps their added weight really was too much. He hated himself as soon as the thought formed – he scowled at the grass ahead. The state of his wings was no one's fault but his. Every step through this grass was Peregrine's due. He imagined the hawk-eye bead in his pouch and how slick its surface would feel, pinched through the cloth.</p><p>Peregrine sped his pace to a lope, the ridiculous hopping stride of a bird-legged korvi trying to be a runner. It did some good; the fields passed by, smeared with blue flareflowers, and Opens crawled toward him.</p><p>Cornfields appeared through the grass, and the town roofs drew close enough for Peregrine to see round contours in the hearth smoke. He slowed to a walk and his joints from hips to toes were suddenly loose as water. He didn't bother resenting it; he hadn't practiced running lately, either.</p><p>Peregrine passed another korvi man, sometime between jarring strides. Someone orange-feathered like he was. Carrying a bulky object. Peregrine only realized the telling details of that person a moment later, when memory suspected that the man's jaw had moved. If Tillian were here, she would have shepherded Peregrine, pointing out the stranger's comments and what he ought to do about them. He stopped long enough to feel like a fool, and look behind him at the stranger's back. Peregrine of Ruelle was still a miner, still as deaf as the rocks he broke, still wearing goggles as a remnant of his trade. He wondered longer whether to call out to the departing fellow, and ended up simply forcing his feet back to movement.</p><p>If Peregrine planned to be a messenger, he would need to face towns full of talking people. He had done that before, while he scraped his first mine clean and refused an earferrin: he did it by paying enough attention to compensate, wringing meaning out of what he could still hear. All well and simple when he had been eighty years old – still in his prime, still shrugging off the humming ear din as the annoyance it was. Now, he would have a harder time listening. He hadn't noticed the burden growing until he had to lift it with grit all his own.</p><p>Peregrine paused in the Opens street, letting out a sigh he had been stifling. Korvi and ferrin milled around him, reds and greys and the babbling movements of conversation.</p><p>If Tillian sat listening, she would have reported the granules of information these people passed about, the crucial news and the idle hearsay and the names they held dear. Likely related to gripthia, but there was no knowing for sure; these worry-faced people might have been talking about gasterslugs eating the crops for all Peregrine could discern. He heard only vague, turbid street noise and if he wanted to pretend otherwise, he was more addled than he thought.</p><p>One person in Opens had proven already that he could speak with a miner. If no other choice, Peregrine had that fellow. Dragging claws through his mane, he focused on his destination; the street dust was muddy-stained with the fading daylight.</p><p>He brushed past Ethen's open-tied door curtain, opened his mouth and didn't bother with a greeting – Ethen wasn't listening. He sat in a magely way, hands folded around a green-glowing gemstone, eyes closed.</p><p>“Nearly finished, I hope,” Peregrine breathed. He leaned on his tail. Relief touched his back just from that, and retiring to bed would feel like the kind lap of a god. But he could wait.</p><p>Moments dragged by and Ethen stayed still as a dark thicket, and his plantcasting scenting the air. Necessary work, charging casting stones, but it was certainly never meant to hold an audience's attention. After rubbing too hard between his eyes, Peregrine looked up to see the glow finally ebbing, gathering into a patient spark at the center of the crystal.</p><p>Ethen blinked, and blinked again, and looked up with glazed eyes. <span class="u">Ah, Peregrine</span>, he said, deliberate and clear. <span class="u">Forgive me, but you look asleep on your feet.</span></p><p>“I could say the same.”</p><p>A smile nudged Ethen's mouth. <span class="u">If I were on my feet, I'm sure you could. I've been putting what skill I have into casting stones for– Ah, what does the light look like out there, good fellow?</span></p><p>“Plenty gold. Dark will be showing in it any moment.”</p><p>Realization widened Ethen's eyes. <span class="u">High Ones, I've been at it for most of the </span>day. The expression stayed fixed; he made no effort to keep his stare from Peregrine's shoulder. <span class="u">Your earferrin?</span></p><p>“She's in Fenwater.”</p><p>Ethen put the charged gem aside, into a pile of similar stones. <span class="u">I suppose your–</span> and his mouth movements sped together.</p><p>It was just like before. Just like the first time Peregrine knew, stony inside, that he belonged to the mines and he would struggle at conversations for the rest of his years – his nerves burned under his skin.</p><p>“Slower,” he spat, “If you would.”</p><p>Ethen stared. <span class="u">Are you truly going to be all right without her?</span></p><p>“I can read mouths.” Not nearly often enough. “And Rose is best off with Tillian to mind her.”</p><p>A pause hung skewed between them. Ethen nodded, and climbed to his feet. <span class="u">That's–</span> His face twisted; his fist rose to his mouth and he coughed into it. <span class="u">Forgive me. That's good of you, Peregrine. How is Rose faring?</span></p><p>“Managing, last I saw of her. She has eight of her local ferrin managing the small tasks. Half of them are kits, though.”</p><p>Ethen looked up from pouring tea, eyes deep with worry. <span class="u">Are they?</span></p><p>“If I had to wager on it, they're a litter from eight months ago. They're fine students at that age but gods, Ethen, it's children teaching children over there. I'd need a demon's heart to deny them Tillian.”</p><p>Ethen turned back, carrying mugs, mumbling something breathless to Verdana and her sacred boughs. <span class="u">Here, Peregrine, hot tea for what hurts you. I knew they could use more korvi villagers in Fenwater, at the very least. But this ... </span>He looked to Peregrine, silently hoping. <span class="u">I've got only enough in me to manage Opens right now. Dear Daisy is seeing to our ill folk but she and her family are wheezing dreadfully, last I checked.</span></p><p>Mages caught the very sicknesses they tended. Ethen was pouring his casting into stones because he knew that very fact, and knew the importance of grabbing up harvest before the storm. If Peregrine could hear this man's voice right now, he would surely hear rasping, the first traces of demon claws – regardless of whether Ethen called himself leader or mage or simply a kind-hearted fool.</p><p><span class="u">Syril is headed for East Hotrock in the morning,</span> Ethen went on. <span class="u">There are plenty of free wings there, but how much casting assistance the Volcano can spare is another matter completely. I'm waiting for word on whether the demon has reached their doorway.</span> He stared at the middle distance. He shook his head. <span class="u">This will be a narrow escape for us, Peregrine. Opens will survive this because we always do. Fenwater might hold together, if fate is generous, but every grain of effort will count.</span></p><p>“Anything I have to give is yours.” Peregrine said it without thinking. Being a worn old man wasn't the most terrible fate by far. The effort of listening throbbed in a sore band around his head, and he caught the faint tightening of Ethen's lips anyway.</p><p>Thank you.</p><p><span class="u">His voice is shaking,</span> Tillian said, <span class="u">Like a leaf in the wind.</span></p><p><span class="u">Then,</span> and Ethen mumbled at the ground for half a moment, <span class="u">Valeover. As soon as you can get to Valeover, Peregrine, please do. Their herb fields grow like Verdana herself tends them, so they'll have mint and–</span> He paused to cough, shuddering down the full arch of his shell. He looked back to Peregrine, truth squirming on his face and finding nowhere comfortable to rest. <span class="u">They'll have herbs, at any pace. Maybe some bright healing stones to send along, as well. Bring whatever you can.</span></p><p>Peregrine nodded. Bright stones – or dark stones, or both – always changed hands in times like these. There were always folk who lacked the strength to fight their demon any longer; there would come a time for the plantcasting and cures to stop, and for the High Gods' pure healing to simply keep the pain at bay for a moment. Bright and dark stones had never been the same for Peregrine since learning that. He couldn't mend a splintered claw or a deep bruise without feeling the other uses for the magic, the potential fates sliding greasy under his feathers.</p><p>“Fine,” he said. “And I'll see if any Valeover ferrin are seeking to travel here, I'm used to carrying their kind and I have my own companion pouch. There's no such problem as too many ferrin in a town.” He put his half-empty mug back on the table, hating the thought of swallowing any more.</p><p>Ethen nodded, thought narrowing his eyes. If there was any more to say, he couldn't seem to grasp it.</p><p>“I'll be back in the morning. Get some rest, Ethen, for Verdana's sake.”</p><p>Doubt tugged at Peregrine as he headed for the door. It took a touch on his feathers to determine why: Ethen had said something – pointless, of course – and chased after him. And now Ethen settled himself, his brow creasing at his own outburst.</p><p>How are your wings? Not strained, I should hope.</p><p>Dusk-tinted light didn't flatter Ethen; he was a pale young man with worries bagged under his eyes. Running after an old miner was a waste of his valuable strength.</p><p>“I'll manage,” Peregrine said. “You have enough to worry about.”</p><p>A smile pulled Ethen's face, a fishhook caught in his cheek. <span class="u">So do you.</span></p><p>Peregrine barked a laugh. “My worries fill a smaller bowl. I'll manage as long as I get to bed in the next few moments, I swear on it.”</p><p>Ethen inhaled to speak, and simply nodded.</p><p>With a muttered goodnight, Peregrine turned away, leaving that plant-scented house and following the street. He couldn't sit and have salve fussed all over his wingshoulders, or let casting be wasted on him; it would be relief stolen from someone dying. No, Peregrine wanted to become a messenger and here it was: a slab of messenger duty freshly cut and cooled, a cargo he needed to set his teeth and carry. His earferrin sat somewhere other than his shoulder and he ached in more than body. Peregrine would be more careful, in the future, of what he hoped for.</p><p>The aproned kitten smiled sympathy today, while he led Peregrine back to the Opens sleeping quarters. Peregrine didn't have the heart to admit that he remembered the way.</p><p><span class="u">Do you need anything else?</span> The kitten fidgeted, staring up at Peregrine, hoping plain for a task to do. He was a bright-eyed young fellow like ... Like Kelria's elder cousin had been. Banish Peregrine – he couldn't even keep his family's names straight anymore.</p><p>“I'll be fine.”</p><p>The kitten nodded politely at that lie. He chirped something about <span class="u">letting them</span>, and trotted off.</p><p>Letting them know if Peregrine needed anything, most likely. People said that more often than he had ever known, burning flecks of kindness peppered everywhere. He smoothed lumps from the bedding, the same crescent of blankets he had shoved away that morning; no one had touched this bed. Perhaps they had deemed it his.</p><p>Water-depth dark filled the room and ear din silence came with it. If anyone was speaking, it was once again too low to matter. Peregrine laid down, puddling into the welcoming mattress. His vision took a moment to penetrate the shadows – Peregrine's sensibilities scolded him to eat more carrots – and the rest of the room was still. He stared at the wall. He found himself alone.</p><p>Giala told him a legend once, simply because the house had been sticky with silence and because she had never told him this particular tale before. It was a legend her house had passed down for as long as korvi had been full of fire. There had once been a snake, she said, who discovered a spark inside him. Small wonder that he did. He found it under mouse dinners and old bile and that stone he'd eaten that seemed like a fine idea at the time. But there it was under everything – a spark, red and welcoming. The snake didn't know what to do with it, so he hid it in a mountain crevice and ...</p><p>Peregrine's memory grew dusty toward the middle of the legend. The snake likely sought the gods' advice. Folk in legends met their deities in every street and field, and usually tripped over some Legend Creatures while their minds were so occupied.</p><p>But regardless how how he did it, the snake got rid of his own clutter and coughed up his stone, filling warm instead with Fyrian's fiery spirit. And since he was lighter and livelier, he took up dancing. So the ancestors said, anypace. Giala had told that tale in the fat-coloured light of candles, smirking delighted; her lap had been piled full of Zitan's downy-new kittens, all six watching her with sleep-clouded eyes.</p><p>If legends would stop leering down at folk from their superior ancient times, Peregrine supposed he would like them better. That snake might have decided instead that mining was his calling, and all the blazing spirit in the land wouldn't have let a limbless creature manifest a strong set of arms. Great Fyrian must have bestowed luck on that dancing snake as well as a few ripe words of advice. Peregrine tried again to remember the middle portion of the story, as much as he didn't care a plum for it, and he found nothing he could feel sure of.</p><p>And delicious as lying down was, it made aches pool in Peregrine, leaden puddles covering his back. Sleep would take patience, just like anything else he did. All he wanted was furkind weight between his wingshoulders, warming the feeling away.</p><p>If Peregrine could sweep out his clutter, and cough up some ill-advised stone, he would surely have a less troublesome time of things. He hoped his life was no legend; the gods, at times, seemed far away.</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That morning – and thanks to great Bright, providing a dawn as keen as the edge of a new farming spade – Syril spent some time worrying. Flight always turned his thoughts inward, once he settled into a high-flowing wind current and Opens looked small as splinters behind him. Today, Syril stared fretfully into the sky and thought that this state of things was no good at all –gripthia gashed the land up wretched and most folk didn't know the half of it.</p><p>He considered his favourite thirty-six trade routes – thirty-seven if he counted the shortcut between the Sierra Mountain spires. Those routes would need to be mapped all over again, once he got word of which aemet colleagues still lived and where they'd fled. Seeds to the wind, all of it. And that wasn't even accounting for where his fellow korvi would flap off to, and whether the foraging groups of ferrinkind would wander like everyone else was doing. Gods help him, but Syril couldn't imagine splitting those hairs right now. Errand-runners and foragers sprang up everywhere and were usually as tenacious as wild brambles themselves. The land would manage on that front: no use minding the loners, because they looked after themselves.</p><p>No, losing town farmers would deal a harder blow to the daily way of things. The gripthia demon – dreadful beast that it was – seemed to favour those aemets with plenty of other aemets within a stone's throw. Which meant neighbours wouldn't have a cup of strength to spare for neighbours and crops would rot on their vines no matter how wholly anyone tried to pick up the slack. Corn went first, fussy stuff that it was; everyone would eat less for breakfast and hoard their whiskey. Cotton came close behind. Maybe a few fields of barley would molder for want of a farmer's hands, which wasn't so bad on its own but it made a bitter topping for the other goods gone to waste. Thinking of losses chilled Syril like creek water through his feathers, and that wasn't even considering the commodities being given away right now on nothing but faith – chaos, utter chaos. This wasn't how business was meant to work, skies, no. Everyone needed to eat, particularly the folk moving food about with their backs or wings or otherwise, and favours were an excellent way to clean out one's larder and get nothing in return.</p><p>Syril would have to be canny, that was all. Fly a few days' journey away, maybe follow the Great Barrier's inside edge where the plants grew thicker, and pick a serene little forest town to trade some silver baubles to. That could line his belly. It always did, when a hardship turned into a pinch. And he would be careful this time, if he had a lick of sense – last time the demon struck, he had traded all his fine metals to some ruined orchard farmer, a short slip of an aemet woman with a kindly face and no one to help her harvest. She grew wonderful marblefruit, truly. A festival on Syril's tongue, and it had seemed worth the price he gave but it hadn't saved his foolish self from shovelling out a stable for his next meal. No, indeed.</p><p>The life of a merchant, the Reyardines always said – what a bunch of clever crows Syril had for a family – was a life tougher than a year-old dried apple, and it could be just as sweet if a fellow put his heart into the chewing. Dried fruit – now, that made a fine analogy. Perchance the old grandparents and great-uncles were suggesting that Syril should be keeping more trade goods for himself, caching bits and twigs away for hard times? Yes, that sounded about right: Syril of Reyardine ought to have a fistful more sense. He would look after his own affairs better after this gripthia bout was over, see if he didn't. He thought of village harvests already, all the succulent meals and all the trade linked to them; maybe he could see about a scratch-built home like he kept meaning to. Syril could still carve some presence into the land, deepen his mark up by the time he turned ninety-five.</p><p>He sailed off one thermal and onto another, and he squinted. Folk always said thinking was best done with closed eyes – or else <span class="u">thinking</span> and <span class="u">seeing</span> would be the same word, of course. Far be it from Syril to argue with sense like that. He spent a moment trying to shutter out the distractions but it didn't work, seeing as motion snagged his vision, something stirring in the polegrass. Goodness help him, but he had to be seeing things. Falling asleep, perhaps, not that his own thoughts weren't a fine enough form of entertainment. Syril wheeled to check his bearings – Great Gem behind him, Hotrock's hazy peaks ahead – and then he did a better job of noticing the motion ahead.</p><p>It was still a half-dozen furlongs away, buried in the distant grass and blanketed with the shadows of a few wind-twisted maple trees. But that was no mere breeze movement down there and Syril would bet a copper bar on it. Creatureshapes stirred – slender, green-coloured ones.</p><p>Now, this was a bug in the oatmeal. Aemets usually had a better idea of how to be shrewd. Horse sense, one might say. It was hardly like them to camp in the center of nowhere, particularly when they knew the demon was about. Strike him, but Syril had to know about this for the mere sake of knowing – he glided lower, with the strangest feeling forming in his bones.</p><p>Thank the gods he stopped. That thought ran circles in Syril's head the rest of the flight to Hotrock, the entire way he pushed his wings on quicker. Thank the gods he had stopped, because this child – Syril had things in his trading pouch older than this boy – hadn't stirred once yet and Syril couldn't begin to say whether that was a bad sign.</p><p>Extra casting stones still hung from his waist, a double-edged blessing since they balanced the boy's limp weight. There was no time for his wings to grow sluggish, not with a cargo like this. He fanned firecasting to a blaze. The burden seared his arms, and the wind bit at his eyes, and Hotrock Volcano spread great and grey below. Directions and shortcuts knotted up in Syril's head – and Fyrian forgive him, he just sank on wide-flared wings toward Tijo's sky entrance. He could snatch both of his targets at once.</p><p>Terribly clever of Tijo to have this entrance carved. The entrance gaped at Syril, an open mouth wide enough for three korvi to sail inside without so much as brushing pinions. Syril knew that but skies, the child grew heavier each moment; he pleaded at his wings to do better and they had nothing more to give. Rock jutted at Syril and one last, hot wingbeat got him through the opening, close enough to clip his tailtip and sting him with fright.</p><p>Landing was a glimpse of purple light, full of ferrin eyes widening at the sight of him. Syril stomped hard onto the ground, three points of white-fierce contact, and colour him stunned if it wasn't the messiest landing he'd made in all his years.</p><p>“No, no, I'll see to him,” came a familiar voice, calm as trickling cave water. “Syril? Is the Cold coming after you?”</p><p>He hacked up smoke before he could get his breath properly. A ferrin – one wearing a gem collar, bless every one of Tijo's magelings – came a lollop too close and was made to sneeze; Syril murmured an apology as he twitched himself back to order.</p><p>“Tijo, my friend,” he said, “skies and embers, it's the demon sending me here! But you know that story!”</p><p>Tijo canted his head. Darkcasting light oozed off the stones lining the walls, glazing his feathers rich purple as he approached. Clever of Tijo to light his entranceway with darkcasting, kinder on the eyes as dark light tended to be – quite the bushel full of relief after squinting in harsh daybright.</p><p>“Is that–?”</p><p>“It is, I'm frightfully sorry to say.” Syril pried his arms open, welded shut with effort though they were. Blanket folds fell away and the aemet child's head rolled into the crook of Syril's elbow, his face hardly cooler than Syril's own flight-fired skin. “I found his poor sprout, he seemed a mite lost.”</p><p>“Dear gods.” Eyes wide, Tijo hurried close and laid knuckles on the boy's brow. “Where was he?”</p><p>“Two-thirds of the way between Opens and here. I came across the whole family but everything holy forgive me, I couldn't carry all four of them! The mother was the only one who could cough two words and as if that weren't enough, she said something about a basilisk hunting them. he miserable beast must've–”</p><p>“Here, pass him.”</p><p>Tijo gathered the child into a balanced hold he must have practiced at one turn or another. Wings mantled as if to shield, he turned, murmuring directions; the cloud of mageling ferrin scattered. There was nothing left for Syril's arms to do, it seemed, but hang about and be useless – and ache, but that didn't count as doing a blasted thing.</p><p>Tijo glanced back, a bolt shot past his wing. “Where exactly, Syril?”</p><p>“North-northeasterly from here, I'd say. Perhaps they were trying to get to Opens – they couldn't have missed it by more than a thread's width, the poor kin. Sheltering under a scanty little stand of maples, last I saw them.”</p><p>Tijo sighed, a sound that echoed off the ceiling harsher than it ought to. Laying the child in the arms of a korvi aide, he looked to his dearest mageling, what's-her-name with the red tie decorating her tail.</p><p>“Send the Fenwater team.” Tijo said flat as defeat. “North-northeast, look for three aemets near trees. Tell them to use all the fire they've got.”</p><p>Red Tie nodded, and ran away.</p><p>Not that anyone as skilled as Tijo didn't know their head from their haunches, but that command certainly did send worry worming through Syril. He hurried to Tijo's side, holding his bracelets to quiet their clattering. “The whole team? That sounds like a–”</p><p>“We have no choice, unfortunately.” Tijo smoothed mane feathers back behind his horns, frowning. “Fenwater has few healers, but that aemet family has none at all. They may still live if we bring them here swiftly enough.”</p><p>Which meant it was the entire town of East Hotrock's problem. It meant long hours of Tijo's efforts spent guiding everyone in the volcano, careful and steady as he guided his own fingers. Thank Fyrian for gifting them with Tijo, because a mage like him was worth a dozen times more than the land could ever pay.</p><p>“Well, whatever's best for the folk tied up in this muddle, I suppose.” Tipping his head, squinting, Syril asked, “Now, did the Fenwater team include you, by a spark of a chance?”</p><p>Tijo smirked humourless. He reached to his wing, grabbed flight quills and tugged – and the entire handful came loose, splayed wine-dark in his fist.</p><p>“You <span class="u">are</span> moulting!”</p><p>“I couldn't have picked a worse time.”</p><p>“Say that twice because it's true!” Syril reached for the loose quills. “May I, friend? The dancers love your colouring, they say it really adds panache to a feather fan and–”</p><p>“Take them. Now, I wouldn't get far if I tried to fly. There's no sense in trying it. I'm best off staying in Hotrock to oversee the efforts – we'll need to have food stores to spare, in case aemetkind loses too many of their farmers and gatherers this side of the land. Did you tell Ethen that we can send barley flour?”</p><p>“I did indeed!” Of all the things Syril forgot, trade goods were never among them. “Then, where shall I go now?”</p><p>Tijo gave him a talon-sharp glance. “You still have the strength to fly?”</p><p>As though needing to catch his breath was the summit of all challenges. Syril grinned. “Without any trouble at all, friend, I could fly for weeks and then some!”</p><p>Tijo hummed. Thought washed through him, and he nodded. “Skyfield. They've likely heard about the demon by now, but I haven't checked for certain and they're a town half aemet. It's not far to fly, Syril: find Maythwind, the Skyfield mage, and tell him the news. Recruit any aid those folk can spare, and then get some rest before you do any more.”</p><p>“My good Fideless, do you think I'm that soft?”</p><p>“No. I don't doubt you.” That thinking look stayed levelled at Syril. “It's just that if you exhaust your wings, I'll have a frightful time finding someone else as quick.”</p><p>Syril was the fastest Reyardine ever hatched – bet a pigeon pie on it. He fanned his wing feathers. “Ah, you flatter me, friend. Then I'll get going, count that and make a mark of it! Skyfield is south-east of here, is that right?”</p><p>“Straight east. It's in polegrass and cornfields.”</p><p>That sparked in Syril's memory, flint hitting against steel. “Yes, Skyfield! I believe I've been there, it was just after that carpenter–”</p><p>“Farewell, Syril.”</p><p>Straight to the heart and soul of a matter, as always. Chuckling, Syril prodded the burgundy quill feathers deeper into his pouch – that was the only trifle he had to look after before he was set to fly again.</p><p>“Tijo?” The korvi aide was back, with a load of blankets over her arm and a nurse's shining concern in her eyes. “The child's throat hardly needed casting, it's the fever we ought to fret about. They're cooling him now.”</p><p>Tijo hissed a sigh through his teeth. “I'll be there when I can. Be thorough. Don't leave him alone for more than a heartbeat, have Yinnika watercast on him when need be. How many victims now? Including this child?”</p><p>“Fifteen, so far.”</p><p>In any jumble of things – such as a cargo pouch full of spoons and wire and cotton thread – the littlest things shuffled downward. Single beads and dry needles of rosemary bounced to the bottom to rest on the pouch cloth, because the pouch cloth was sure to hold them. That was a lot like how Syril imagined the land to work; people got lost sometimes, here and there, in confusing times like when towns fled from gripthia. Families wandered and bounced downward through the jumble, and they ended up in Hotrock. It was anyone's guess where they were meant to go but there were fifteen sick aemets in Hotrock right now and one of them would have died if he'd stayed out there in the lonely land. <span class="u">Someone</span> had caught him. Syril supposed the gods were to be thanked for that.</p><p>Tijo and the aide discussed what to do with the fifteen demon-struck. Syril stood there fretting along with them, just without saying anything; saving the life of a stranger was a frightfully solemn thought, he found.</p><p>He spent a moment watching clouds, the white-on-gold framed by the silhouetted rock entrance. Syril had his breath caught and his strength back; he was ready to fly but the numbers involved in this errand weren't matching up. Thousands of folk in East Hotrock. Dozens in Fenwater.</p><p>Five korvi walked past Syril, then, to stand in the patch of daylight – messengers and rangers, faces familiar after a hazy few clicks of thought. One by one, their tails and thighs bunched and they launched upward, wings scooping the air with an echo-loud clamour. They were the Fenwater team, clearly enough, even though they lacked ferrin comrades or supply-filled pouches – those helped villages, yes, but they hampered flight. Thousands and dozens and individuals: these figures simply weren't matching up.</p><p>“Friend, if you would,” Syril called, and hurried closer to Tijo. “I'll fly wherever you wish, of course, but I do need to ask. Is it truly best to send the Fenwater team away like this? Think of the village!”</p><p>Tijo stared. His nostrils widened – ever so slight – and fear poured gravel-rough down Syril's back. “You'd leave that child's family to the demon?”</p><p>“Skies, that's not what I mean. Don't get our ropes in a knot.” It hurt now, the mere want to be practical. Syril was no heartless beast – at least, he hadn't imagined he was. “It's only that by the time the Fenwater team returns here, the way the fevers– Ah, what I mean is that perhaps it would be a better use of our resources to help the twenty-some-such of folk in Fenwater. That's the cart and horse of it.”</p><p>“As I said before, they have a mage. The child's family has no one.” Tijo bent over a bag of stones now, sorting them with fierce motions. “Nothing is hopeless, Syril. I heard of a young aemet with stipple fever some years ago. She boiled in her skin for two entire days and came out of it fine. Seeing, speaking, remembering everything. If I can make such good fortune happen for those poor souls you found in the fields, then let the Barghest take me if I choose to stand idly by.”</p><p>Frankly, if Syril were the Legend hound judging rights and wrongs, he would swallow up all of korvikind for making choices at all, terrible mess of wormy apples that this was. But Syril wasn't in charge of a single blasted thing – his own personal enterprise not included, of course.</p><p>“And gods pour you a full cup for a reward, my kind friend,” Syril said. He smiled, leaning on his sore tail as smoothly as he could manage; magelings were pausing as they passed, probing the conversation with their eyes, the dear nosy folk. “I don't claim to know so much as a spoonful about taking care of folk, I just mind the numbers, you understand. They're such fiddly things.”</p><p>“That's reasonable enough.” Tijo sighed and gathered a pouch around the sorted stones. Politely turning their attention elsewhere, his magelings carried on their many and varying ways. “I don't care for these numbers any more than you do. This next eightday will be a trying one. You'd best get on your way.”</p><p>“Care for yourself while I'm gone, won't you, good Fideless? These folk haven't got a prayer if their mage should faint, Bright and Dark watch you so that doesn't come to pass!”</p><p>“Thank you, Syril.” It was the kindest grumble anyone had ever heard. “Good winds to you.”</p><p>The winds did twist to Syril's favour once he was winging away from Hotrock, and he was plenty glad for such small morsels of luck. He set his eyes on the horizon, where buildings nudged above the grass; his thoughts turned back to his ordinary merchant's thoughts,, flight distance and supply lists and instructions stamped onto the inside of his skull. Gods, but they felt strange after he'd been fretting about people. Objects and measures were such dull, lifeless things. Syril knew forties and eighties of capable allies and it was about time he made true use of them, Fyrian damn him if he didn't.</p><p>Foragers would be in meagre supply these next few months, busy gathering healing plants or else catching ill themselves. Syril cast away a half-dozen names before he even began to think. No, he would need to drop in on his most reclusive contacts, the ones who surely still had reserves to give from. Show them a smile, tell a heart-rending tale and Syril could trade for everything ever grown or made. He could even meet some new friends if he stayed sharp. Reyardines had exceptional wings and quick minds to match: Syril would do well to make use of those things.</p><p>He pressed himself into the winds. Firecasting smoothed the strain away and Skyfield roofs made patterns in the distance. Fenwater would get hands to help, all right – it was just a sticky little matter of where the hands would come from.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Learning to use a casting stone was simple, as far as Tillian had ever known. Simple enough once a person was grown into their own skin, and once they put staunch effort into it. Simple enough that her Redessence friends taught her how when she was still a kitten – Tillian remembered knowing the feel of brightcasting light when she began counting her age in years, not months. And now the Fenwater sick house had a bag of plantcasting stones sitting in the corner; there were people who needed plantcasting help; the process in between couldn't be too confusing.</p><p>Tillian asked again to be taught, and worry swarmed onto Rose's face – she must have been thinking, maybe sensing trouble and gale wind outside the sick house walls.</p><p>“If it isn't difficult to teach, I mean.” Tillian forced her ears level. “I already know how to use a light stone.”</p><p>“I suppose we could try ... You won't lose as much casting if you've practiced the technique before.”</p><p>Tillian put down her bundle of sweat-scented tunics – the laundry could wait – and lolloped to Rose's ankle. “I'll try my best. Peregrine said I caught on faster than a lot of people do.”</p><p>“It's no mark against you, Tillian. It's only that we don't have enough plantcasting to spare for the normal way of training.” Rose shook her head. “I was trying so hard to remember my herbs, this past day. I can't believe I'd–”</p><p>“Regrets don't get anything done, kit.” A stone's throw away, Breeli looked over her shoulder, whiskers glowing with the hearth firelight. “Just do what you can, starting now and going forward.”</p><p>“It's–” More gloom crept over Rose's face, twisting her corners. “I should have known better, that's all. I should have planned.”</p><p>“Plan on taking a rest, will you?” Breeli poured steaming, golden broth into the mug between her feet; the rich-simmered scent of pigeon bones clung to the air. “Here, eat something, too.”</p><p>She carried the mug determined, tail swishing. Rose hesitated, and knelt to take the gift.</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“Niro says to chew some sage leaves with your meal, it'll help your– Storm it all, why am I telling you about garden plants? Just put whatever herbs you need in there, kit, I don't doubt you need the strength.”</p><p>Breeli's ears jumped at a cry of her name, then, and she pattered away. The air tasted heavy with thought now. Rose bowed her head.</p><p>“Sage works best for weaselkind,” she murmured, barely stronger than the steam weaving off the surface of her broth. “Aemets need to eat a whole meal of sage for it to work as a curative. It's a fine thought, though.”</p><p>Tillian forced her ears level. “Maybe if you–”</p><p>A sound stopped her – that paper-parcel wheeze she heard through doorways in Opens, that sound of threat stalking closer with hard-set eyes. Here it crept again, yanking her to trembling attention – it was close this time. Tillian looked hard past Rose's tunic collar, into the shadows where her throat pulsed to swallow.</p><p>“Rose?”</p><p>“Yes?” She took a wary sip of the broth.</p><p>Rose had mage wisdom but she was still an aemet, still a person. Electricity built inside Tillian, buzzing around her heart. “Are you all right? Your throat ...”</p><p>The edges of Rose's mouth twitched answer – Tillian knew the entire sinking truth, watching that quiver. She waited even so, for Rose to swallow and sigh and speak.</p><p>“It has me, as well,” Rose said, calm as cave air. “You can hear the difference, can't you?”</p><p>“Only when I listen. But I listen a lot.”</p><p>Rose stared into her broth. “Sometimes the demon isn't satisfied with its first attack. It returns, and sets its claws into a person and tightens only a little. To make them remember.”</p><p>Like a salamander with caught prey, opening its sticky-fanged mouth only to snap down again. Gripthia didn't know what mercy was, either. Sparks ran down Tillian's back, over each knob of her spine.</p><p>“Are you going to need help, too?”</p><p>“It's never as fierce the second time. Please, don't worry.” Rose smiled weak. “We Telligs are born mages. We have to be able to weather a little fatigue.”</p><p>Everyone could set their feet into the dirt, and struggle, and insist they weren't fading. But why should they have to, when someone else could shoulder a bit of their load? Only miners were supposed to be so stubborn. Tillian turned the copper bead between her fingers; she noticed Rose's drinking arm unmoving, and nudged that angular elbow upward as a suggestion.</p><p>“I don't like it, Rose. You have so much to do, what if–”</p><p>“Don't tell Breeli, please. Nor Niro or Fahras, of course, but mostly Breeli.”</p><p>A smothering squeak crawled into hearing range, coming from the same corner it always seemed to haunt. Rose climbed to her feet, cautious like remembering how to balance on her own joints.</p><p>“We're here, though,” Tillian said, following her, “if you need us. The weak throat doesn't hurt, does it?”</p><p>Rose sat by Vilhelm's side. “Fetch a plantcasting stone, Tillian? If you would.”</p><p>The room around Tillian sluiced off her as she ran, only bare outlines lodging in her memory – the endless beds, the stones' sheen inside the bag, and endless beds again. Rose took the clean white quartz, her fingertips flattening as she gripped it.</p><p>“It's just numb enough that I know the demon is there,” she breathed. She traced a line on herself, chin to chest. “All down here. Now, come closer, you'll need to be able to reach his throat.”</p><p><span class="u">Learning</span> was just another way to say <span class="u">doing</span>. Tillian shuffled onto the prickly straw bedding mat, watching Vilhelm's chest work, watching Rose's expression shift with thought.</p><p>“Plantcasting is ... Verdana help me. Plantcasting grows from inside, it's a slower-creeping element than your electricasting. Its mood is a little like brightcasting, but it moves more like the way a vine spreads itself, measure by measure.” She paused for more thought. “I'm not sure if that makes sense. You'd probably learn best by trying it. Do you recall how to start a stone?”</p><p>“I think so.” Tillian took the stone, placing its cool heft on Vilhelm's shoulder. This stone held casting energy separated from its flesh-and-bone wielder, so that the magic became a creature of its own. Starting a stone was just reaching out with her own casting, to touch that dormant magic and wake it up. Tillian's electricasting sat ready for her, crackling, running along the inside of her skin. It swirled around every hair of her pelt and with one conscious wish, the electricity ran down her fingers to bounce off the glassy quartz.</p><p>“That's it,” Rose's voice nudged. “Reach for the center of the stone with your own casting center.”</p><p>Tillian pressed more electricity out from her chest, along the tendons in her arms. She had always wondered how it felt for an aemet, to pour strength through their palms and into whatever they held. She wondered too how casting felt for a korvi, fanning their inner fire each time they breathed. Each kind had their particular way of channelling casting energies, like different roads headed the same direction. Tillian folded her ears tighter and sank into her own ferrin center; white bolts uncoiled to fill her, stretching forward along her claws, and something inside the stone stirred in response.</p><p>“This is healing plantcasting. It knows what to do, so it only needs to be guided to his throat.”</p><p>Touch on Tillian's back, pressing her forward, tighter against warm body weight. The stirring inside the plantcasting stone formed a strand – like Tillian's casting-bolt but denser, roiling, a green shoot twirling toward the sky.</p><p>This wasn't a matter of starting the stone and letting its casting shine free. Guiding meant leading someone by the hand. Tillian wound her casting in closer, lacing it together with the healing magic, pulling away from her chest. <span class="u">This way,</span> she thought, vibration running through her whiskers.</p><p>“Good, keep drawing it. Think of where you want it to go, into the flesh of his throat.”</p><p>It had to go into someone sick. The plantcasting heard Tillian and sped its pace, jostling her electricasting, spilling out of the lifeless stone facets. It latched into Vilhelm with warm roots and spread, green.</p><p>“Don't let it wander. You might move the stone closer to his throat?”</p><p>Tillian's body, the quartz rock, the casting and the air – everything was tuned together now. Every breath tasted mint-numb. She wanted her hands to move, and they did, and the stone rolled to a dip near Vilhelm's throat. Something felt wrong there – muddy, breathless – and Tillian tugged the plantcasting toward it.</p><p>The roots sank further, fierce as thorns. This wasn't Tillian's element and it worked in a silence she couldn't hear through, but the wrongness began to lift, carried off in shards to a place where it simply wasn't anymore. This was plantcasting healing, the antidote casting at work. It really did know what it was doing: Tillian sat there full of lightning, with clever ivy stretching away from her. Here was the awed feeling she remembered, the crumb of insight on how the land was put together.</p><p>“That's enough, call it back. It can't cure any more than this.”</p><p>The plantcasting still rifled through Vilhelm's living weight, needing to help. Tillian pressed her own element into it, laced into the plantcasting and pulled. Telling it where to go seemed to help so she brought the quartz stone to her mind: <span class="u">storage, home.</span></p><p>No, the plantcasting felt, dragging against her. There was healing to do.</p><p>“Be firm with it.”</p><p>“Don't mages have to do that?” Tillian's tongue shaped weird sounds, far beyond the crackle and growth inside her. “It's not listening to me.”</p><p>“It's a matter of patience, not necessarily a mage's patience. Gather it into the stone and focus there.”</p><p>Tillian pulled, her fingers tense hooks against the quartz, her electricity bracing white. Roots yanked free of Vilhelm and strained in the space between flesh and stone. The plantcasting pushed to match Tillian, bracing to oppose and it had at least as much patience as she did. Hands covered hers - Rose's glade-wide hands. More plantcasting wound into the mix, more vines spilling along Tillian's extended casting. She had far-spreading fingers, suddenly, and the stone's casting curled into place, bristling against the place it belonged.</p><p>“I imagine myself inside the stone,” Rose said. “You might try that – simply thinking of the center of the stone. Like you're staying there yourself.”</p><p>A gemstone would be a safe place for energy to rest; it had to feel like being shielded by buildings and blankets. Tillian imagined the close cradling of a resting place, the pleasant awareness of walls; the plantcasting condensed and finally, grudgingly stilled.</p><p>The room rebuilt around Tillian, all its ground and thatch and air. People were here, full of sounds and scents, and Rose was letting out a high-pitched breath.</p><p>“It does take practice,” she said. “Mostly to figure out how another element behaves, and how to convince it obey you. That was fine for your first use, truly.”</p><p>The plantcasting gift sat in Tillian's hands, locked into its cloud-white stone, flickering. “There isn't any way to heal the demon away completely,” she asked, “is there? The casting felt like it knew how.”</p><p>Rose coughed; regret lanced across her face before she answered. “Plantcasting wants to help and make things better. So it'll give until it has nothing more to give. It doesn't especially care if its giving makes a true difference. It can only drain away the worst of the poison, to help folk breathe, but it'll still keep up its efforts as though it can cure the demon ten times over.”</p><p>Casting was made of element and desire and will, all the things a person could hold inside them and never really touch. Tillian was her ordinary self now, a ferrin with Ambri's lightning inside her and no element other than that – but she still understood. Her palms tingled; mint stayed blazing in her memory.</p><p>Vilhelm slept now, his face smooth and tranquil. Footsteps scratched away from Tillian – she darted to follow Rose.</p><p>“There are two people beginning to squeak, one along the far wall and one at the end of this bed row. Can I try healing again?”</p><p>“I think so ... As long as there's casting strength left to give, this is a person's best defence.” Giving a nod of thanks to the attending kitten, taking her place at a bedside, Rose knelt. She moved like a tree, swaying but sure-footed. “Tillian, do you know the legend of the demon?”</p><p>Tillian knew legends about other sicknesses, chill and goiter and cancer, but she hadn't been storied enough to know this beast. “I think Peregrine told me the ending of the demon's story,” she said. “The part about the casting stone making the demon sick so it has weak spots now. I haven't heard the legend properly.”</p><p>“I'll have to tell it to you. The legend explains the healing process better than I ever could.”</p><p>And with that promise out of the way, Rose beckoned Tillian closer. The casting stone waited in her hand.</p><p>Daily life sounded like music, Tillian thought. It wasn't played by drums and pipes, exactly, but it had a beat in the shuffle of ferrin paws, and a melody in the up-down of people's voices. Life sounded different now, as she concentrated on gems' casting, sensing the land with her heart and her whiskers. It was a steadier pattering of paws than her Redessence family, and Rose's whisper-dull steps where there should have been claws raking dust. Or, rather, where there <span class="u">could</span> have been korvi claws. There was a still forest here instead, spreading away, full of traits to scent out.</p><p>The kittens brought fresh-dripping cloths, rearranging linens on skin. Fahras brought log chunks for the hearth, hugging them sure to his chest, the scent of wholesome sweat following him as he passed. Hours passed before Tillian found Rose's mug of broth, cool and forgotten behind emptied herb pouches.</p><p>“Bring more cloths, please,” Rose said. “As wet as you can make them.”</p><p>That mage voice was small enough to hook Tillian's attention from across the room. Rose sat, a hand laid on an Irving brother's forehead, fret on her face. It was Cliffton she watched over – the eldest one, the one Fahras was most anxious for.</p><p>Tillian set down her casting stone; she needed to figure out if its remaining dreg of plantcasting was worth summoning out, but that could wait. She went to Rose, placing her feet careful, hoping quiet was polite.</p><p>“Is he managing?”</p><p>“He's burning inside.” Rose's hand ran over Cliffton's hair, a gentle outlining of another person; the motion stirred bone-deep memories of everyone who had ever loved Tillian enough to touch her.</p><p>“Plantcasting can't cure fever, can it? Or else you would have done that.”</p><p>Sad agreement filled Rose's eyes. She smelled damp now – only barely damp because aemets couldn't sweat, not enough to wring out their troubles like full-blooded furkind could. The sick folk here had a thin edge to their scent, like brine spread thin over a whole field of leaves. Tillian put a hand on Rose's, over taut tendons and skin glowing lukewarm.</p><p>“We'll manage, though,” Rose said. Her voice scraped.</p><p>A sound pulled at Tillian – here came the straining beginnings of a squeak. “Vilhelm again,” she said.</p><p>“Again ... I'll see to him.” Rose swallowed, a mucus-thick struggling down her throat. “Tillian, Breeli, Fahras.”</p><p>Tillian straightened, ears high. Feet skittered on the dirt and Breeli and Fahras arrived beside her.</p><p>“I need to go harvest. Please watch over them for me? Tillian, you know where the stones are.”</p><p>“Niro's out for more mint,” Breeli said, “If that's what you're after.”</p><p>Rose shook her head, heaving to her feet. “Willow. Only I can do that.”</p><p>Goddess Verdana held the willow as her most beloved tree – Tillian knew that much. Aemets talked about willows like dear grandparents and held willow leaves like treasures. How sick did a person need to be to cut pieces off a holy plant? Close to death, if Rose's set mouth was any measure.</p><p>Rose went to Vilhelm's bedside, her feet moving heavy as brick. Another flare of plantcasting scent, another wash of lettuce-coloured light, and his squeaking eased. Without another word, Rose left; her steps scraping away.</p><p>Turning reluctant, Tillian and the others faced their work, even the kittens with their high-fanned ears.</p><p>“Rose'll be a while,” Breeli said. She gathered bedding into a ball, and a whiff of ammonia escaped it. “Cutting willow bark needs lots of respect paid. But once that's through, I say we get that kit to bed even if we have to tie her there.”</p><p>Looking up from the youngest Irving, Fahras tried, “If we can take care of everything ourselves, yeah.”</p><p>“Well, we've got enough hands to keep all the cloths wet, at least. We'd best get some sleeping shifts organized.” Breeli sat tall, and her voice filled out mother-sure to match. “Kits? Are you whelps tired? Pipe up if you're going to.”</p><p>Five piercing voices called back to her from all corners of the house.</p><p>“Not all at once, strike it with sticks! Rolara Riora, you first.”</p><p>“Tillian?” Fahras sat by her side, fidgeting his apron hem in his hands. “Would you tell me if Cliffton needs plantcasting yet? He sounds awful to me.”</p><p>She would have done it even if she had no clue what to listen for. “Yes, it's no trouble.”</p><p>Fahras stayed a generous step back, like his sheer presence could block out sound, even though Tillian could hear every detail of Cliffton's throat whole paces before she was at his bedside. He made the bristles-on-cotton sound that came before the struggling squeak; he was flushed mud-green, and struggling without movement.</p><p>“I'm washing him down whenever I have a moment,” Fahras murmured, “with the mint water. Rose said that's the best I can do for him.”</p><p>“Do you and the others know how to use stones?” That made the weighty feeling in Tillian's belly worse, thinking about how many weak throats would need casting support soon.</p><p>“No,” Fahras said. “I don't think I've really seen casting used like that. Breeli? Can you use stones?”</p><p>Breeli sat taller in the middle of the bedding field, barking a laugh. “I only tried a casting stone once and it drained dry before I could learn the first rule about working it, banish the thing. I don't have any knack at all for that fiddly stuff. You can show my family if you really want to, but Niro, bless him, has a knot of a time with commontongue. The kits, huh, I don't know. Maybe they'll take to it.”</p><p>Judging by the quirking ears all around, the kits would try anything they were offered. Everyone was quiet, a chord of indecision.</p><p>When Tillian Sri was the kittens' age – and standing as earferrin-proud as her twiggy body could manage – she had asked Peregrine to let her try a stone. It didn't look that hard, she had thought. Peregrine might need someone to light his tunnels, on the days where he smelled tired like charcoal.</p><p>He had grumbled that Tillian Sri ought to focus on her trade right now. Giala had smiled lopsided, and rooted through her supplies for a charged stone Tillian could try with.</p><p>Brightcasting felt like a huge new sky, back then. It burst through Tillian Sri's soul-grasp and ignored every brave thought in her head, her electricasting following light beams away into nowhere. Lespin Wellis hadn't fared any better, when he came to her side to try.</p><p>They needed time to learn their own casting, Giala had told them, gentle as daisies, before they could command someone else's element. That time would come soon enough. Then Giala had put away the emptied casting stone and sang that, besides, they didn't need to worry about wasting this particular quartz – she had been thinking to chip it up into beads, anyway.</p><p>Fenwater had no stones to spare for training mistakes. They needed healers who could leap sure into place and throw all their strength behind a task. Tillian's fellow furkind were capable in the flesh-and-bone sense, not in the casting arts. They must not have practiced with bright and dark stones at that eighteen-month mark of life Peregrine said was best; maybe Breeli could be adept if someone had taught her how.</p><p>“We're fine at running all over hill and vale to fetch things, though.” Breeli splayed her ears wry. “You're yanking my leg, Fahras, you didn't learn a thing or two from your brothers?”</p><p>“They cast straight onto the plants whenever it's needed ... I don't think they've ever tried to save their strength for later. If anything, I could try to plantcast myself. Going by the feel of it, you know?” His hands sketched stems, winding in the air. “But I wouldn't want to start doing that and let all of you run out of wood and water.”</p><p>“There's a fine idea,” Breeli said. “No sense leaving the basics to rot. It's got to be a load off their minds, this hearth you're keeping stocked up. Plenty of heat for this steam there's always a tizzy about.”</p><p>“It's very important.”</p><p>Breeli and Fahras looked to Tillian. Her voice hadn't burst out too loud – she was sure of that. And herbed steam itself wasn't strange. Maybe they stared because Tillian's childhood showed plain.</p><p>“As much as I know,” she added, “steam is best for helping sick people breathe.”</p><p>“I'll believe that.” Breeli followed a beckoning kit, and said, “That's settled, then. We'll do the grunt dragging and leave the fiddling to the trained folk. Right, Fahras?”</p><p>“That's fine. Whatever they need.”</p><p>Working bustle settled back into the room. Tillian tugged the blankets to order around Cliffton's chest and she spoke soft, just to Fahras, as the two of them sat between sleeping brothers.</p><p>“The mage in my town says steam can save kittens' lives. I don't know if it's the same for aemetkind as for our kind, but we should try.”</p><p>“Should we close the door tighter?”</p><p>She hadn't expected Fahras to be staring at her like this, ears drooping, mild-held hope in his eyes. He was looking to Tillian for answers, looking at her the way everyone ever born must have looked at their mages and leaders and family, wanting wisdom still warm from someone else's hands. For a moment, Tillian couldn't find words.</p><p>“Close the door,” she wondered, “to hold the steam?”</p><p>The doors had stayed closed when she was small, she seemed to remember. Light blared in through the smoke hole, with day-bright haloes on her korvi friends' horns and night-dark shadows clinging under their wings. It had been a time of wet-tasting air and a sliver of daybright under the door curtain.</p><p>“That's a good idea,” Tillian decided. “Unless Rose says it isn't.”</p><p>Fahras trotted toward the door the moment she was done saying it.</p><p>Shadows filled the sick house, as its door rustled closed. They tended folk by coals' glow and a handful of candles Breeli dug out of storage bins.</p><p>The more Tillian worked – checking temperature with her knuckles, calling plantcasting out of stones, listening and watching – the more she knew. As she explained to a kitten what to listen for, she wondered if this was how magelings felt, or how everyone felt while leading others. Maybe this was how Peregrine stood so rigid and proud: he thought of all his friends looking up at him.</p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rose's airsense was worsening. She could lie to herself in a close-walled house full of friends, but heading into the vast forest left her no excuses – right now, bark and air and soil stirred together into a muddy blur around her. Dulled senses were a mark of the demon's sickness, as sure as a weak throat and hot skin. Even her vision dragged now, taking long instants to make sense of each shape her eyes landed on. This was a taste of what her villagers faced. When ordinary motions took so much effort, Rose imagined it was easy to succumb to sleep and never wake up.</p><p>Her heart twisted as she walked the twilight-purple path to the river. Willow branches arched over her, the same elastic shape as aemet antennae – and any of these trees could provide Rose the bark she needed. How terrible, looking at fellow children of Verdana and choosing one to sink a knife into. But it always came to this when the demon struck. Taking willow bark was as established as the plucking of herb leaves, Rose repeated to herself. She came here full of respect and need; the goddess would forgive.</p><p>Water's murmur slid in through the rustling leaves. The river appeared, willow branches draping its surface, white-bellied leaves stroking the water. Rose stopped and put a hand to a rough-solid tree trunk. She quivered with exertion; air dragged inside her with each clumsy breath. She wondered, for a moment, standing there, if she ought to place her own casting-glowing hands on her own narrowing throat – but she couldn't. Rose was here to take willow bark because others lay in need. Spending healing strength on herself – strength her village needed – was more than she could explain away. She pushed back onto her own wobbling legs, singed inside where that selfish thought had touched her. She carried on.</p><p>Rose stopped at a willow before her, close to the riverbank where the creeping vines matted together. Once settled on her knees, pillowed on leaves and moss, she measured out her breathing. Plant-shapes wagged all around her in the dusk. The river talked to itself, and great Okeos had a soothing voice.</p><p>She drew the godsknife from her tunic pocket. Clean lengths of rag spiralled away; the crescent blade glinted, purple light on steel. Rose thanked fortune again that she had remembered where Father stored this – the thought of using an ordinary paring knife was too much to bear. She laid fingertips on the willow trunk. The godsknife waited cool in her hand.</p><p>“Willow.” Her voice cracked, dry as glue. “Please forgive your sister, as she takes what others need.”</p><p>She stirred plantcasting in her palms, a wisp to sense plants with. Life flowed in this tree, no different from the blood flowing in Rose: sap gathered friendly toward her touch.</p><p>“Great Verdana, mother of green. Please forgive your children, for needing help in this moment.”</p><p>The godsknife had two horn handles, one at each end of the blade. Rose gripped them, resolute. Mages long before her perfected the design, to make cutting into a willow precise and merciful. She placed the blade against the tree and bore down. Metal bit in with a tiny, crisp sound. Bark wedged away; Rose's insides turned over; the willow's essence flinched, like water shivering away from a dropped pebble.</p><p>“Please forgive your child, Great One. She only wants to help, and only means to heal.”</p><p>One last tug of the knife and a bark strip fell free. Rose pressed her hand to the raw wood and her casting flowed in, growing, repairing. When she had the courage to look, smooth new bark showed through her fingers. The forest thrummed around her and guilt swelled between her lungs.</p><p>She let out a sigh. Carefully, not wanting to taint cut edges with her touch, she picked up the willow's gift and wrapped it in a length of rag.</p><p>“Gods around us, life inside us. Thank you.”</p><p>Those last phrases were the only ones she felt sure of. Father told her about harvesting willow bark. He had mimed out the whole thing on an imagined tree trunk in the quiet dusk. Quietly, he had promised to bring Rose with him the next time he needed to cut willow bark – dreadful as it was to need any, he added. Rose wouldn't easily forget the way he looked at the godsknife, his gaze distant as hilltops, before turning to bury it in his other supplies.</p><p>She focused on the willow's leaves, suddenly, wanting to sense breeze-stirring shapes on ropy branches. Cliffton had been to this riverbank earlier, fetching prayer leaves with his precious little strength. Now Rose sat in the forest, dwelling on the past instead of on her sick village. She knew better.</p><p>Leaning on the willow trunk, she pushed to her feet. Her vision lurched – odd, since she hadn't used much casting. Or maybe she had. Her own strength was a token speck to give a great and thriving tree. She hoped her apology was heard: trees didn't tend to speak answers.</p><p>The cut bark went safely into her pocket, and the godsknife laid heavy beside it. Rose stood there, surrounded by the river's voice, alone as she took a deep breath. She turned toward home.</p><p>She had always thought it would be difficult to seperate inner bark from outer. Verdana's tree was full of life, and life held on fast, so the bark would cling tenaciously to itself. Rose had decided that as a child, in the middle of being told a legend; she remembered that realization and the golden weight of her mage heritage, and only distantly the details of the legend she heard that day.</p><p>The willow bark peeled freely apart for her. The hardest part was keeping strength in her arm muscles to grind it. Each circle drawn with the pestle wore as much away from Rose as from the pulped wood fibre. She stopped to rub between her antennae; her hand came away damp.</p><p>“Ah, Rose. You are good?”</p><p>That even-paced voice always gave her a smile. Rose turned to see Niro lolloping in. She managed to sense the way air tripped over the bald patch on his tail – only for an instant, and then the skin and fur textures smudged together hazy.</p><p>“I'm good, yes,” she said. “Thank you.”</p><p>Niro shuffled close enough to peer into the mortar, his ears twisting a question.</p><p>“This is willow bark,” Rose said. “It's strong medicine, from our mother goddess.”</p><p>She couldn't place how much of what she said actually reached him. Rose lacked a ferrin body to speak with, and gods only knew how much commontongue Niro had soaked up in these past years. He nodded, looking at her like into lake depths.</p><p>“Trees are better with cooking.”</p><p>Healing barks needed more rigorous preparation, he meant. Which meant that wild ferrin likely had no advice on the subject: their expertise was in the leaves, the seeds, the yielding stems, everything that could be chewed in combinations as old as time. Niro had suggested all the garden herbs already, plainly hoping that common parsley or rue could strike the demon down.</p><p>“That's right, willow bark needs to be crushed and then cooked. And always–” How to force this into simple words? She stared into the mortar, biting her lip. “It should be used with love.”</p><p>“Love helps.”</p><p>A hand settled on Rose's knee. It took her a moment to look at Niro, and find him lit lantern-gentle.</p><p>“I got mint,” he said, “beside the door. Friends need you now.”</p><p>Aemet and ferrin friends alike, probably, because Rose hadn't been minding the shifting colour of the gemlight and didn't dare guess how long she was taking. Niro removed his hand; temperature was muffled through her cotton leggings and cloaking fatigue, so Rose noticed late that Niro was only barely warmer than she was. She was a mortal object, clammy to the touch, pushing her insensate limbs onward.</p><p>“Thank you,” she said. “I'll be there soon.”</p><p>Niro left, his tail waving in the air-dark. Rose refocused on crushing the bark to threads. She only hoped this was worthwhile, asking such a gift of the gods and fumbling to use it properly – at least Father had left her salve bowls, ready to use.</p><p>Night began to colour the gemlight, as Rose brought a half-filled bowl to the sick house. The willow paste sat unmoving, jam-thick, but she still petrified at the thought of stumbling and spilling it. The sick house's door curtain hung closed before her and inside, the occupied bed rows felt humid, surrounded by steamed air.</p><p>“Rose?” Breeli sat at her feet. “Doing all right, kit?”</p><p>She nodded. Strange, how little that motion mattered when her airsense already smeared dull. “I'll manage. Have any more folk needed the stones?”</p><p>“A few of 'em. Seems like the fevers are the real grit in our gruel.”</p><p>“Five new people needed casting,” came Tillian's clear voice – she sat at attention, not more than a stone's throw away. “Not very much casting, though. I used up two stones.”</p><p>Thank goodness for Tillian: that watchful friend sat over Vilhelm still. Spent casting clung to the air, stroking Rose's palms as she approached.</p><p>“Vilhelm, though,” Tillian said, “well ... You should see about him, Rose. I don't think I'm doing this right.”</p><p>A void opened in Rose as she knelt, a dread pit in her heart. Vilhelm's skin was hot under her fingers, the inner flesh of his throat a presence like oily mud. Plantcasting clamoured inside her; she held it back, listening to his breathing – breaths came rapid and were never quite successful.</p><p>“I healed him half an hour ago,” Tillian murmured. “And then he was squeaking again just now.”</p><p>How Rose wanted to swallow; her throat trembled with guilty effort. “That doesn't mean there's a thing wrong with your healing. He's simply getting worse.”</p><p>Tillian shifted. “I thought that might be it.”</p><p>“Anything you can do for him?” Breeli slid in close by Rose's arm. “That's what you got willow for, right?”</p><p>Rose nodded, lowering the bowl to her lap, stirring the paste smoother. She didn't need to look to Breeli or Tillian; she knew how they stared, always digging.</p><p>“Willow's spirits are close to great Verdana, so their bark is full of healing essence. Willow can ease fevers, take away pain ... It's all the prayer our kind have.”</p><p>“Does he need to eat that?” Tillian peered into the bowl. “I don't think he can swallow.”</p><p>“The paste is to be spread under the tongue, so it's best if he doesn't swallow. Open his mouth for me, please?”</p><p>Tillian and Breeli both hurried to do it; Breeli arrived first and tugged Vilhelm's jaw. His breath rasped, gurgling like trapped water. The sound resonated in Rose, too deep to find or to think about. Summoning green to her hands, flooding her touch with the goddess's element, she gave the last remedy. The pale blotch of paste under Vilhelm's tongue may have been too much or nowhere near enough – Father hadn't taught her this, either, only summarized it.</p><p>“All right,” she said. “Thank you, Breeli. We'll remove what's left of that paste in an eightmoment.”</p><p>She replaced the spoon in the bowl. Something itched at her like she wasn't finished here; forgotten rituals still beat fists against the inside of her head. Fahras brought a pailful of water to the bedside; Tillian and Breeli freshened Vilhelm's cloths; it all did nothing to balm Rose's mind.</p><p>“He's so hot,” Tillian said, turning worry-wet eyes up at Rose. “Is there anything else?”</p><p>Here came inevitability, an ink soaking in to stain forever. Rose looked to the beds around Vilhelm's – she saw mostly sleep-blank faces, with a few staring dull-eyed at the roof thatch.</p><p>“This is all we can do,” she said. “If he can't stand against the demon even with this aid, then– I'll– I'll keep close watch on him.”</p><p>Her gaze landed on Merle. Rose always thought of someone as steady as house poles when she thought of Merle. Now the woman stared distant, her eyes two glinting slivers in the half-light and it was anyone's bet whether she comprehended words. Rose forced her airsense away from her own body, searching through the soupy world to find breath flowing from Merle's mouth – steady and near sleep, Rose was mostly sure. How terrible it would be, overhearing the Fenwater mage speaking of death while sitting over a beloved husband's bed.</p><p>“Maybe you should stay close to him,” Tillian said. “If he's not doing well. Can I give folk the willow for you?”</p><p>The land was a wobbling blur and then Tillian's earnest, fine-boned face. In the few clicks she took to think, Rose didn't know what to decree. Willow treatment was a favour of lent strength, passed down from the goddess through her most potent leafed children: using that strength was best suited to aemet hands but others could use Verdana's strength if they chose to learn how. The thought felt sound in Rose's head. Natural elemental alignment prevented absolutely nothing; the gods listened to everyone who put enough effort into speaking.</p><p>“I suppose you can.” Rose took Tillian's hands, forming her fingers around the bowl. “Give it to those you're worried for. And pray for them. Think of great Verdana, and– And imagine goodwill flowing outward to help others.” Goodwill was the soul and the essence of mages' casting; Rose hoped it was the only part that truly mattered.</p><p>Tillian nodded. She sniffed the willow paste, unconsciously curious, before hurrying away on three feet.</p><p>Father must have done this, Rose thought in stone-edged words. He must have weakened and needed to pass responsibilities to near friends. He would have smiled with one dry corner of his mouth and said something hopeful, however much weight his weakening body still needed to haul.</p><p>In Fenwater presently, sitting among her people, Rose closed her eyes – her head swam and the currents pinned ideas against her. “Fahras, how are the supplies? The water and wood?”</p><p>“There's lots.” Imagination filled in the quiver of Fahras's whiskers. “I can keep up with the water you use, even if you need to put on lots of steam. Don't worry about that.”</p><p>“It's good that you four did that. Put on more steam, that is. It'll help their breathing.” Rose hadn't been minding the steam– this newest stumble in her procession – but at least her good allies had.</p><p>Breeli nudged Rose, a furred cheek's touch against shell edge. “Thank Tillian for that idea.”</p><p>Thank the gods and the land for Tillian. As well as the good Ruelle, wherever the winds carried him now.</p><p>“You're doing well,” Rose said, her own weight pulling down toward the earth. “Just carry on, I suppose. I'll be here when everyone needs me.”</p><p>A murmured agreement from Fahras and he was gone, slipping into the impenetrable air. Rose listened to breath sounds, so aware of Breeli's presence that the near-contact hurt.</p><p>“When you say you'll be here, I hope you mean you'll be getting some shuteye while you wait.”</p><p>Rose tried again to swallow; her throat shifted gelatinous, slowly managing. “You know I can't sleep now. The worst is hanging right over us.”</p><p>Spitting a sigh, Breeli laid hands on Rose's knee. She took a silent moment to decide what to say.</p><p>“You know what my mother told me about nagging your kits? She said don't. They've got minds of their own and if they don't, they'd best grow some. She never told me it takes such a bite out of your rump to watch 'em figure things out, though. Gods <span class="u">around</span>.”</p><p>Rose smiled. She opened her eyes careful against all the colours.</p><p>“You can't do this all by yourself any more than you can catch thunder,” Breeli said, “That's the point I'm getting at. There's help on its way from Opens or Hotrock or wherever. So lean on us a little harder if you need to.”</p><p>When all this was over and dust settled on the ruins, Rose had to ask for stories. More of Breeli's mother's wisdom, and more of what Breeli herself had learned while raising three litters. It would never make up what the other Telligs could have taught Rose – never begin to replace those fumbled, lost lifetimes – but mages had to do what they could.</p><p>“I'll try,” Rose said. “As long as you're here to keep watch.”</p><p>“Oh, count on it.” Breeli butted friendly against her shell's edge. “Now, you know we're keeping the place full of steam for you. My brood's all curled up for a sleep, but me and Niro are keeping on top of the cloths as best we can. Anything else we can do, Rose?”</p><p>She wanted mushroom soup. Like Mother used to make, and Father used to attempt to make. She wanted the round-rich taste of a bolstering meal, a feeling like sitting by the hearth and watching everything being normal around her.</p><p>But she had trouble enough right now. Yesterday's pigeon broth and a forest's worth of herbs would be enough to eat; Rose could feel those sticking in her throat already. No one was awake to sit by this hearth with her.</p><p>“You're doing plenty,” she told Breeli. “I'll let you know if there's anything I need.”</p><p>For a moment, Breeli said nothing, only stared. Then she darted on her way, fur held angled like she couldn't decide whether to hackle.</p><p>Rose couldn't carry on forever – she knew that as sure as stone, sitting there with the air and ground both thick around her, heartbeat shivering in her veins. But mages didn't need to help forever; they only supported until support was no longer needed. She would find more to brace her village with, because she surely could. Tellig strength grew inside her, a core of heartwood. Even if she hadn't found it yet, she knew it was there.</p><p>With a palm flat on the dirt, Rose pushed onto her feet. She swayed and didn't fall.</p><p>Casting came easier than she thought. Perhaps her determined thoughts smoothed the way, or else the sound of her village struggling to breathe spurred her on. Healing people was no more intricate than letting blood flow from a cut. Rose held tight to her focused state, listening for more squeaking, going anywhere Tillian pointed. At some stage, Tillian vanished for one of the ferrin napping shifts – that landmark was swallowed by the ever-stretching hours.</p><p>All Rose truly remembered was dragging her feet back to Vilhelm's beside, over and over, his breath squeaking in a quickening tempo.</p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Giala had no cause for worry. She thought that to herself three serene times while mixing more detailing clay. Someone likely saw Peregrine landing, guessed him a messenger, and had Tillian wheedle him into flapping off elsewhere – after all, that happenstance always seemed to strike Giala while she was running errands. As long as Peregrine fared well, wherever he was, then her dear light could stay away from home for a horse's age.</p><p>“I thought I'd make Gryffin's mane a rich orange hue,” Giala said, “so it looks like flames.”</p><p>Della didn't answer. In the pleasant-warm emptiness of the home, Wellis and Keevi tipped their heads questioning.</p><p>Well, if that wasn't peculiar. Della had only left to fetch a few sticks of wood, and it wasn't like her to drop a favour by the wayside. Clapping the worst of the clay off her hands, Giala went to the door.</p><p>It was sheer fortune that the korvi fellow wore jingling trinkets, or else she would have walked straight into him.</p><p>“Great blazes!” The korvi fellow spread his hands wide. “Ah, forgive me, dear friend, but the land is dark as the inside of a dog tonight and I dare say I need to give a few buckets more of my attention!”</p><p>“I do, too,” Della murmured, standing by the fellow's foot with her ears low. “Sorry.”</p><p>“There's no harm done,” Giala said – it was actually only dusk, and just a pinch more of their attention would be plenty. “Did Della fetch you?” Della had been listening for wingbeats for hours – her heedful ears might have caught news about Valeover or someone in it.</p><p>The fellow grinned. It was an easy, handsome grin shining as bright as the beads all over him – this one definitely made his living by his tongue. “You might say that! I'm out passing news to your neighbours and I'd have fetched myself, given enough time. Allow me to introduce myself, friends! Syril of Reyardine. Ask for the name, whatever you need!”</p><p>Syril gave a performer's greeting, bowing, fanning his wings wider than ever necessary; Giala did the same, a happy reflex.</p><p>“Reyardine? I've heard of your clan!” She motioned him in. “As merchants more than messengers, though.”</p><p>“And rivers usually flow straight, but they'll wind however they need to! May I ask which house this is?”</p><p>“Redessence Clan.” Giala gave the slew of names next, hers and the ferrin's. She and Peregrine had practically started a house together, except for the mere fussy detail that all of their children were furkind.</p><p>“Truly a pleasure to be welcomed through your door!” Syril blinked wide eyes, stopping like a snare line yanked taut behind him. “Wait, Redessence Clan? That's a name I know, I just can't say where from. Hrm. Ah, I've heard a thousand things from everywhere, I suppose! Do you know about Fenwater, my good Heriette? That's what my news regards, you see.”</p><p>Fenwater was an aemet village, Giala recalled, a cluster of folk living in the swamp forests. She kept meaning to fly out that way, see the lay of the land, and trade for a pouch full of whatever that village had grown lately.</p><p>“News? I don't believe I've heard.”</p><p>“The demon is upon those poor kin, and it's all claws! They made exodus yesterday morning and everywhere within a day's flight has been a bees' nest ever since.”</p><p>Giala's hand flew to her mouth. All her half-thoughts snapped into place now: Peregrine had indeed been asked for his wings, and poor Maythwind was quite utterly right.</p><p>“When he says the demon,” she murmured to the ferrin, “he means gripthia.”</p><p>Every long ear in the house fell.</p><p>“Which is why I've dropped in on you and your neighbours, you see. This is a trouble that's only going to burn hotter! Speaking of that, my, but it's a well-stoked oven in here, my good Heriette! Wonderful after a day's hard flight.” Syril wandered toward the hearth.</p><p>“I was hoping to finish some claywork. But new statues aren't the land's biggest worry, clearly enough.” Stifling a sigh, Giala picked up a cleaning cloth and worked clay from between her knuckles. “I suppose you're here to gather messenger's wings?”</p><p>“Things are a terrible snarl of wool right now,” Syril agreed. He settled on his braced tail, frowning, backlit by coals' glow. “The biggest portion of why I'm here is to warn your mage. He's quick as a chased lizard, though – it seems he was charging stones before anyone even told him of trouble. What sharp senses he must have to catch wind all the way from Fenwater! An asset to his kin, I'm sure! But at any pace, yes, I'll gather all the help that's here for the picking!”</p><p>“You've got my wings,” Giala said. She threw the used cleaning cloth into the washbin and, with a pang, supposed she wouldn't be touching her clays again anytime soon; surely the aemets of Hotrock would want Giala to help their sisters instead of making ceremony statues.</p><p>Della twisted her ears. “You're going to go find Peregrine, aren't you?”</p><p>Giala liked to think she wasn't that transparent. But liking the thought didn't make it true. “If I find him,” she said, smiling, “So much the better!”</p><p>“Peregrine?” Syril bounced onto his feet and flinched at how close he came to stepping on Wellis. “Yes, of course! Peregrine of Redessence Clan! I never forget a face but the names can be such slippery things, you understand. Peregrine is a miner, isn't he? With his small friend, ah, Tirrian? Tillian? They went flapping off to Opens as soon as they heard of the need. Wonderful folk, sweet as plums!”</p><p>Peregrine was the first plum of the crop, tart enough to keep his sweetness a secret. He was likely showing the land a stoic face right now – gods forbid anyone know that worry poured through his bones.</p><p>“From the sounds of things,” Giala said, “their help must be sorely needed, indeed.”</p><p>Wellis stood at Giala's feet. “Do you need us?”</p><p>“We could help, too,” Keevi added.</p><p>Della chewed a paw, and nodded.</p><p>“The full clan of us, then.” Turning a level look to Syril, Giala said. “You heard the little ones, good Reyardine! Where are we needed?”</p><p>Syril smiled real now, crooked and toothy. “I'm pleased as pie to hear it, friends. Truly! Now, Opens and Greenway have taken in most of the sick folk, but the real thorn of the matter is the two dozen or so left in Fenwater. Their mage has her hands full and that's saying it mild.”</p><p>“Fenwater people are the sickest?” Keevi stood on tiptoe, offering a bowl up to Syril.</p><p>“Is that cornbread? Bless your heart, friend, thank you!” He sank teeth into the meal, and modestly swallowed before continuing. “Fenwater needs healing, the dear souls, they'll never escape the demon's clutches without more plantcasting. East Hotrock is having a bit of a briar patch getting help on the wing, but a delivery of plant healing stones would make a fair substitute, I'd wager.”</p><p>“I'll fly as many pouches of supplies as there are to send,” Giala said. “And all of us in Redessence Clan know how to start a casting stone, if nothing else.”</p><p>Syril ran an appraising eye over them, over Giala standing ready and the ferrin moving to pack supplies. Judging by the grin building wry on his snout, he should have come to Redessence sooner than he had.</p><p>“Wonderful, friends, it's thoroughly good of you! Maythwind is preparing now, I expect he has a wealth and a half of stones ready for you.”</p><p>“He's been worried,” Della said. “Enough to make everyone else worried.”</p><p>“Funny how these things spread! It's exactly like the time the demon struck some forty years ago, or perhaps it was fifty, but at any pace I couldn't figure for the life in me how–”</p><p>“Syril?”</p><p>He blinked. “Good Heriette?”</p><p>“Pardon me, of course.” She smiled an apology. “We'll leave for Fenwater first thing in the morning, and we'll be sure to see Maythwind before we go. Do you need a bed?”</p><p>Like his own hurry bit at his heels, Syril hopped off his tail, gulping his last crust of cornbread. “Mountains of thanks, but I won't impose on you folk, my, no! I'm still hoping to make Valeover before the night gets too dark. If you're talking to Tijo, kindly don't tell him that I'm out this wretchedly late? That would be the cherry jam on my biscuits, friends, dear Tijo has enough to tie his tail in knots about!”</p><p>Far be it from Giala and her clan to start trouble. “I think we can manage that,” she said.</p><p>Syril chattered about it being the last favour he'd ask of them, and then he was out the door and gone. Redessence carried on lidding paints and packing for travel; there was plenty to make provision for, after all.</p><p>If she had known that gripthia would return so soon, Giala wouldn't have made all her crystal points into pendants – or, at least, she would have kept the pendants instead of trading them. Ornaments could be practical as much as they were eye-catching.</p><p>As it was, Giala gathered most of the milk quartz and amethyst lying about the house, enough to make a bushel basket respectably heavy. She walked with the load propped on her hip and with Della, Wellis and Keevi close at her heels. That morning, neighbours milled in the streets, wary as minnows. It wasn't often that Skyfield was so deliberately awake in the clear yellow dawn.</p><p>“We could take that load for you,” Wellis said.</p><p>“If you'd like,” Keevi added.</p><p>They could carry anything ever created, or at least chide it into moving where they wanted it to. Wellis and Keevi lolloped side by side, despite having nothing to carry between them. Habit, Giala supposed: they liked each other's presence enough to wish it all the time.</p><p>Hitching her grip higher on the basket, she smiled at them. “It's fine, my dears.”</p><p>“If Peregrine is out helping–” Della stopped to scratch determinedly at her ear. She was gone for a moment and then scampered back to Giala's range of vision, staring up pond-eyed. “Uhh, will he be all right? There must be a lot of errands and messages to run, I just thought, um–”</p><p>“That he'll have a hard time of it?” Giala turned her smile toward the gemstones. Prying them from the earth must have been a trial, but Peregrine had been buckling down to that task for half a lifetime. “I'm sure he's having a hard time already. He hasn't made the trip to Valeover in a single effort since since your great-grandparents' time. But you know him better than that, don't you?”</p><p>“He's determined,” Keevi said.</p><p>“Tough as hammers,” Wellis agreed, “and he has Tillian to watch out for him.”</p><p>“That's true.” Della's ears splayed lower. “Sorry. But Tillian can't help him fly, that's what I meant, sorry.”</p><p>No one could help a miner flap their own wings. Each of those korvi needed to look sternly at themselves and decide if the trade was worthwhile – and if everyone decided it wasn't, then common trade metals would quickly stop being so common. Change caused grief and trouble and twinges of the heart – Giala had done it enough times to know, dredging old skills from her memory.</p><p>She thought of Peregrine; he came to mind wearing the thinking frown, the one he had mastered long before he was old enough to suit it. He would do fine with this plague business. He would force strength into his tired wings. Tillian could tell him to stop thinking until she wore her voice away, and Peregrine would never, never listen.</p><p>“At least we're all thinking of each other, at a time like this.” Giala smiled. “Tell him you were worried, Della. It'll be good for him to hear these things from a mouth other than mine!”</p><p>She made a sound like a startled rat. “Tell him that?! I mean, um. I'll try.”</p><p>“Whenever we find him, that is.” Looking to the wind-wandering clouds, Giala imagined sky currents and her wings mantled toward them. “We'll just do what we can to put some spirit in Peregrine. But at times like these, the whole land is a clan, you know. Can I ask you a favour, dears?”</p><p>Her children warbled answer: Della answered first and most eager, as always.</p><p>“Help whoever needs your hands. There's a legend about how to face this demon, I don't recall the whole of it but I know it's a trouble no one can solve by themselves.”</p><p>“We should find someone to tell the legend to us,” Keevi said. “It might help.”</p><p>“Of course! As soon as we can.”</p><p>Giala didn't intend that, she fretted to find. Stories were stories, and getting tasks done tended to be another matter entirely. Even aemets didn't tell their wisdom-steeped fables while they were busy running. Hitching the gem basket on her hip again, she hoped her little ones would forgive her for a clean lie. There would be time for learning later, maybe while gathered around a relaxing hearth fire, when the land had time to spare for clays and pigment.</p><p>Worried clumps of aemet neighbours passed by, all of them headed away from the mage house with clutched herbs and tense-whispered news. Maythwind's doorway had remarkably few friends lingering near it; clean forest scent wafted from the open door, a tang like a long, concerted effort at plantcasting. Giala knocked and the sight of gemstones drew her in – dozens of crystal hunks scattered across the floor, as though a neatly piled supply box had exploded.</p><p>“Giala!” Maythwind turned, fumbling a bundle in his arms; its contents clacked muffled. “Ah, hello, Redessence. I'm frightfully glad to see you all!”</p><p>The same old impression struck Giala: Maythwind needed a friend consistent by his side. Not just errand-runners checking on him a handful of times each day. A sure companion could soothe his aemet nerves and work the startle out of him, and carry his magely objects about, and scrub those stains from his tunic. Giala smiled sympathy. She set her gift of gems beside some other, scattered ones</p><p>“Hello, there. Did you get any sleep?”</p><p>“Sleep?!” Maythwind's eyes bugged, his antennae waggling with his jolting movement. “I couldn't possibly! Plantcasting doesn't charge itself into stones! I take it you've all heard the news?”</p><p>“About the demon?” Della pulled her tail closer around her so Maythwind wouldn't step on it. “We did. But only most of the news, sorry. Sorry.”</p><p>“It's what I've always said! A mage lets their guard down for a moment and the next thing everyone knows, there's a demon approaching from an angle no one thought to monitor.” Maythwind set down his parcels, turned, and frowned confused. “Did I ask you here for something, friends?”</p><p>“No, but Syril did.” Giala sat on her tail, canting her head. “You need messengers to send to Fenwater, don't you?”</p><p>Pacing across his home – paying no apparent mind to Wellis and Keevi straightening supplies in his wake – Maythwind shook his head. “Fenwater surely does need whatever and whoever we can send, the poor kin. Gods help us, if East Hotrock hasn't managed anything after a day and a half, then– Apologies, I shouldn't be saying it! If we can send skilled folk to Fenwater, and quickly, then we should! We can count on Redessence Clan to help, can't we?”</p><p>Aemetkind already was counting on Redessence Clan, somewhere in the streets and fields and sky. The thought swelled warm inside Giala – this was noble, and broader than any one person could hold.</p><p>“You know we're here for you, Maythwind. Just give me something to carry. Ah, not too much, though. I was hoping to bring the ferrin.”</p><p>He jerked to a halt again, staring at Giala like scrying her thoughts. All three ferrin and a bag of gems would be a load too heavy to fly with, as well as a cargo too precious to fumble – they both had enough sense to know that. Giala raised a brow in question.</p><p>“I– Yes, of course,” Maythwind said. “I suppose I've readied more stones than you could possibly carry ... Let me get a pouch ready, we haven't got time to stand here talking about it. A mixture of bright and dark, to meet everyone's mercies–”</p><p>Terrible, how the demon always turned healing castings into a menace. The high gods' elements dispelled pain for decades at a time, mended splintered claws and knitted deep cuts, and then the slightest mention of gripthia changed everything. Brightcasting and darkcasting became the last choice a suffering aemet would ever get. It was always hard to remember the smaller mercies, after a scare like that.</p><p>“I can't imagine they'd mind whatever you send,” Giala said, “but Fenwater is a marsh town. Those tend to use darkcasting, don't they? To match the water?”</p><p>Stones clicked, and then Maythwind turned, hefting a pouch and staring severe at it. “I thought I remembered as much. Try this, Giala, will you? If that's too much to carry along with three little ones–”</p><p>“Two, actually.”</p><p>The ferrin looked to her, ears lifting surprised. But Giala was sure, moreso now that she had spoken the words.</p><p>“Wellis, Keevi, I thought I'd bring you two. And Della ...”</p><p>Giala crouched toward the dear child, dropping closer to those huge, wet eyes and trembling whiskers. This was a friend waiting for directions, ready to follow them with a nervous passion.</p><p>“Della, love, I thought you might stay and help Maythwind. He could use extra hands, couldn't you, Maythwind?”</p><p>“Oh!” He flailed at the corner of Giala's vision. “If you would? I suppose she could, ah–” He scraped through supplies.</p><p>Della chewed her hand. “Sorry,” she murmured around it, “I'm awful with healing stones, I know.”</p><p>That was part of the trouble, Giala sorely knew. She smiled gentle. “No, it's– Well, Skyfield is your home. You're calmer when you're close to home, aren't you? It'd be the best place for you to help. Just follow Maythwind like you'd follow me, or Peregrine. He'll show you what to do.”</p><p>Considering the room around her, ears twisting with thought, Della nodded. “Everyone gets new things tossed at them when a sickness comes, I guess.”</p><p>“That's one way to say it! See what you can learn here, all right? And make sure Maythwind gets a few moments for a meal and some rest.”</p><p>She leaned into Giala's offered hand. “I'll try.”</p><p>“If you could straighten the wood pile,” Maythwind said, “while you're standing there? I see a stick standing straight up, Verdana forgive the slight.”</p><p>“Of course, yes!” Della jerked, wanting to run and remembering Giala's presence just as quickly. “You're leaving now?”</p><p>“I wouldn't stay here and get in the way, embers, no!” With a brief stroke to Della's ears – sharing courage the simplest way she knew how – Giala rose.</p><p>“That's good of you,” Maythwind said. He paused, blinking at the three ferrin in his home like he had only just noticed how well they fit in. Della scurried to the woodpile and laid the offending stick flat, moving careful, trying to feel out the meticulous aemet rites for firewood. This household looked like it would manage, however nervously.</p><p>“Wellis, Keevi,” Giala said, tying someone else's gems to her pants waistband, “come here, if you would? Let's see how this is going to work.”</p>
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<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peregrine hadn't botched this many conversations in years. His own claws bit into his palms and his thoughts raced over every exchange he had run into since landing, all the babbling mouths greeting him, or asking favours, or some other sugared pleasantry. <span class="u">He's a miner</span> told an entire story whenever Tillian said it. Peregrine had tried that phrasing on the last hopeful-eyed Opens resident, and the fellow had stared blank and repeated his landslide of words. Perhaps his goggles were too subtle a sign, a mere accessory among his mane feathers. Perhaps being a miner meant nothing without an earferrin to accompany the term, without long ears to underscore the korvi's weakness.</p><p>Firecasting sputtered inside Peregrine as he flew, scalding in his chest, licking weak along his wingarms. No surprise, considering how he had been forcing himself this past hour, packing fire into his weary muscles. He wasn't naive enough to think it would work forever. He flapped and Valeover roofs rose out of the morning-lit grass. With the next steely cramp between his wings, the town disappeared again. Peregrine sighed. He added one more token wingbeat to the pile, and circled heavy toward the earth.</p><p>What he wouldn't give for an arnica treatment. Peregrine could feel tiny, thorough hands on his shoulders at the mere thought, and he quickly stopped thinking; closing his wings sent a fresh, sore bolt down his back. No delusions. No more complaining to himself. Peregrine walked, every step toward Valeover jostling his shoulder joints to complaining. Walking wasn't quick enough, not when Ethen's lip-outlined words lingered in his head. <span class="u">Most reliable with a message</span>, Ethen said. <span class="u">Could count on a fellow like Peregrine to return</span>, Ethen said. Damn everything.</p><p>Korvi were never intended to be swift on their feet. Peregrine hurried on rocking, leaping steps, the plain fact of awkwardness constricting around him. He frowned at the passing terrain. He wondered what the passing grass sounded like, what tone exactly the stalks made against each other; his worn and patched memory failed him for the moment. But Peregrine would remember eventually because grass-sounds never changed. Only the people in the field changed. And they all talked about the grass with the same words as anyone else ever had.</p><p>Why, then, had Peregrine brought his earferrin to the mines each time? A few partridge and hares would have been missed, true. The oncoming weather would need to be guessed at. Peregrine may have stumbled upon the occasional basilisk, but those beasts turned cowardly as soon as a fellow spat some smoke; a second tooth puncture scar on his leg wouldn't be the end of him. The Skyfield plains held no trouble Peregrine couldn't handle alone – oh, this was true and he knew it. His ferrin could have met folk and learned trades and built lives all this time. Fyrian help him, why hadn't Peregrine seen that? His mind wasn't old enough to rot yet.</p><p>He grated his teeth, his own gut devouring him. He still vented flight smoke between his teeth and burned too hot inside his ribcage and he still ran because he had let himself grow feeble in too many ways. On Peregrine's next step, the ground failed to catch his foot; his heart seized, and impact jarred up his leg, and he stumbled to a standstill.</p><p>An earthbird burrow. Peregrine gulped air, looking down at the sandy hole swallowing his foot. He had stepped in an earthbird burrow. This might have been how the rumoured korvi broke his ankle: running hasty, blinded by his own fool thoughts.</p><p>In that case, Peregrine would pay attention from now on. He was deaf, not blind; he could watch his own feet just as well as Tillian would. He blew smoke away in one long, grating sigh. Of all the tumultuous times he had chosen to learn, at least he was learning at all. He tested his ankle, found it sore but sound, and kept running.</p><p>The Valeover mage had a head solidly affixed to her shoulders; last time Peregrine met her, she had given off an air of intelligence nearly thick enough to touch, and she had smiled at Kelria. The thought of someone reasonable was a comfort. This mage wouldn't need to repeat herself many times at all, Peregrine hoped. He resolved to speak slowly and clearly for every word – since folk learned best when they were shown how. And if Peregrine had an especially large heap of luck, there may be ferrin around to echo his mannerisms, catching on to cues quick as lightning. He might as well share his own lessons, if he could wrench so much grace out of himself.</p><p>Peregrine passed the Valeover corn fields, his feet numbed by pounding footfalls, slowing to a more presentable walking stride. It was good for a fellow's character to get tired, he had heard plenty often when he was young. The spirit responded to trials the same way the body did. Peregrine, surely, would have character to spare by the time he was a messenger. He flexed his sore-drenched wings, felt every sinew move, and flexed a few times more before the town closed in.</p><p>Valeover hadn't changed. Aemets still frowned worry in the streets, with an occasional ferrin weaving between their shoed feet. Peregrine's mere presence drew a hundred pairs of eyes, but this fire-feathered beacon had no news, only mages' business.</p><p>A few eased closer, speaking words Peregrine didn't watch; he had a task already, an allotted role to fill. He turned away a reedy fellow who said something about his mother in Opens – as though hope alone could conjure up a free messenger to check on her. Then Peregrine's intuition flared familiar. He had seen red in the crowd just then – a flash of korvi crimson and beads. It couldn't be, his mind murmured. By the time he turned and found the colour again, Syril of Reyardine was already approaching.</p><p><span class="u">Good Ruelle</span>, Syril delighted, and the rest blurred together with his grin.</p><p>Gods smite him, he would rather anyone but this chattering fool. “Reyardine.” Peregrine suddenly recalled social graces, a glutinous lump in his craw. He spurred himself to explain. “I'm sure you can see that I don't have my earferrin. If you could speak slower, then I might actually get your meaning.”</p><p>Cocking his head, squinting, Syril tried, <span class="u">Ah, yes, I'd have a ... ... if I didn't manage that much! Apologies, friend!</span></p><p>Syril's enunciation grew sloppy when he babbled – perhaps a blessing to the deaf as much as a curse. Peregrine nodded. “Well? What's the word?”</p><p><span class="u">First.</span> Lifting one finger toward the sky, Syril gave a wide, ludicrous grin. <span class="u">I dare say I wouldn't know you were a miner if you hadn't told me, good Ruelle.</span></p><p>“Really.”</p><p><span class="u">Skies above, yes! Mining folk–</span> and a burst of chattering about ways and airs. Syril eventually decided, <span class="u">I suppose it's how you move, friend. Yes, there we have it! Miners walk like they're still in tunnels and–</span> something about a mouse and a cornfield. <span class="u">You're not doing that! Excellent poise you have, Peregrine!</span></p><p>So many words to drag free of the ear din and Syril had only begun to talk. Peregrine's last determination threw up its hands and stalked away; feathers began to lift on his neck.</p><p>“What's your message, Reyardine? We haven't got time to spend standing around.”</p><p><span class="u">Nothing I'm proud to tell you, sad as it is</span>. His voice dropped so the high tenor shards vanished; his grin retreated. Syril looked vastly more intelligent when he wasn't showing all his teeth. <span class="u">The East Hotrock mage is trying to rally in help from aemet towns, and if he's doing that instead of sending Hotrock wings, well, I'll be holding my copper instead of betting it.</span></p><p>No one would envy Tijo's position at a time like this. His eastern portion of Hotrock Volcano linked the korvi heartland to the thread-fine nets of aemet villages thrown across the eastern plains. That mage had so many friends and villagers to consider, Peregrine could hardly imagine keeping all their faces straight.</p><p><span class="u">Tijo is giving what he has to give</span>, Syril said, <span class="u">don't get it mixed up. But I'm sure Fenwater and Opens would appreciate any help that can be sent without making a fuss about it, if you see how my wind is blowing. Your Redessence Clan is already on their way!</span></p><p>Peregrine ran the words through his head again and still didn't trust how the mouthshapes fit together. “Redessence Clan?”</p><p>Syril grinned. <span class="u">Your partner insisted on lending her wings to the cause! Giala, was it? Of Heriette? Ah, you've found a pretty one, friend! Just don't get things knotted into ropes when I say that, because she's not my type–</span></p><p>“Yes, fine. Is she bringing the ferrin?” The thought clutched fierce inside Peregrine's chest.</p><p>She's bringing small friends as well as some of your mage's stones, as near as I heard! I wasn't in Skyfield long, I fear ... ... and a broad field of a shame that is!</p><p>There would soon be more family in Fenwater, helping Tillian soothe wracked spirits and lift great burdens. Perhaps they would even make use of the casting basics Redessence Clan had taught them, all the tactics he and Giala had explained patient – in case of a day like this.</p><p>Through dizzying sentiment, Peregrine measured distances in his memory – common sense said that Giala flew swifter than he did, but that didn't account for the ferrin and gemstones she bore. All she could carry, and a crystal more on top of it, likely. No half measures.</p><p>“She's– She's headed to Fenwater now?”</p><p>I couldn't send her anywhere else without leaving a streak of mud on my conscience, you see. That Tellig girl is a case to crack a stone heart! At any pace, you may have the gods' luck to run into your clan, good Ruelle. It seemed like a crumb of news you should know!</p><p>Flake though he was, Syril had some gossamer trace of understanding about him now, some knowledge marked by the crinkling corners of his eyes and the restless lacing of his hands. He truly did mean to help. Realizing that made time slow: Peregrine and Syril were two korvi standing in a village not home, just finished flapping their wings off to help strangers, planning on flapping some more. More folk were afield and doing the same.</p><p>Peregrine felt smaller, his body a shed husk around him. “Thank you.”</p><p><span class="u">It's not the slightest trouble!</span> As though on cue, Syril grinned ridiculous. <span class="u">Tell me if there's a thing you need, friend, you know the name to ask for! Oh, and rosehips! I've, ah, heard from little birds that rosehips are good for the ailing so we ought to fetch some if we can! </span></p><p>It looked as though Syril was talking to his own ears; Peregrine nodded indulgent. And after a bow and a long goodbye, Syril slipped away into the crowd, his colouring vanishing like clay in river silt. However tiresome the Reyardine could be, it suddenly seemed that he could make himself worth the while.</p><p>Fatigue weighed again on Pererine's shoulders. There was no more glitter to distract him. He carried on through the green, worried crowds, hoping he had understood enough.</p><p>The Valeover mage greeted him and immediately began frowning questions. Whisking behind Peregrine, she laid a hand on his wingshoulder and said kindly that he looked tired.</p><p>Peregrine imagined he heard Kelria's clear voice thanking the mage. He felt like broken smithereens tied and glued back into serviceable condition; he had never been this tired after chiselling a new mine passage. He felt sapped and crushed flat, like after watching a kit die struggling and then spending days unable to sleep. He needed more time to recover, but time couldn't be borrowed or bought.</p><p>He agreed with the mage, a low grumble humming out of his throat. He kept still, and aemet fingers slipped through his feathers toward knotted muscles; he was a dog following a command he couldn't hear.</p><p>This mage moved brisker than Maythwind ever would; relieved soreness blossomed through Peregrine's muscles, blunted with a wash of brightcasting energy. He reached toward his pouch and the mage waved away the thought of payment, a smile narrowing her eyes; she only asked what news he had brought.</p><p>Messengers surely trained their minds, honing their tools to razor edges. In the closest phrasing he remembered, Peregrine recited Ethen's news and needs. He resolved to work on his memory. No one liked a messenger bending the words they brought.</p><p>He bolted down an offered meal, finding the barley overcooked but the sentiment still palatable. New strength filled him. Peregrine still didn't have any arnica rubbed into his skin but he left Valeover to fly, anyway; he had cargo pouches full of donated herbs and gemstones, and he had ground to cover if he hoped to catch up with his clan.</p>
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<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Tillian was learning the earferrin trade – the true duty of it, not just the way to balance on a friend's shoulder – she started noticing ways the land made sense. Each favour a person did added to a greater whole, like bees working together on their sticky-gold honey, drop by drop. People's homes were like bustling hives, thrumming with life. Or, at least, they ought to be. That comparison only half worked, Tillian decided: bees looked and moved and hummed the very same as each other, whereas people weren't the same at all.</p><p>The first time Peregrine left Tillian outside the mine, the need to know what was in there burned inside her all day; her curiosity surged each time she heard rock crumbling in the vague-echoing tunnels. Walls grew in her mind's eye, spreading furlongs away into the mineral-rich earth. She imagined the chisel-carved walls to be smooth as water and speckled with gem colours, every colour that ever spilled from the Greatbloom's petals – but Tillian could never know for herself. She sat in the lee of the volcano where Peregrine left her, picking seeds from raw crafting cotton, watching dust specks on the air. Peregrine talked about mine dust like one speck of it would have her hacking and straining for breath again. Dust or no dust, Tillian was sure that salterra didn't bother ferrin once they were grown; she knew that because Peregrine told her so.</p><p>After that day, he had emerged into the brilliant-yellow gemlight, tired, smiling as his eyes fell on her. And even though Tillian had done nothing all day but pick at cotton and wish for another task, she was there for that moment; she was his earferrin; nothing else mattered.</p><p>Weeks passed before she started leaving the mine entrance. Just to catch a grasshopper for a snack, or to follow a birdsong to its source. She always hurried back. Peregrine nodded patient when she told him about those things; he said that such a small mote of wandering was no trouble, so long as she minded her surroundings and came back safe.</p><p>She considered wandering farther as she looked over the blurry-gold fields, as she listened to wyverns squawk in the distance. She never did. Tillian was no earferrin if she wasn't waiting there, as close to Peregrine's side as she could be. She couldn't think of any wandering that would be worth that trade.</p><p>Her duties were easier to sense in Fenwater, in that first endless night and its following morning. Maybe Tillian was just trained better now, in life and everything, better at tasting the air to know what people needed. Her fur bristled with static a she healed, electricasting seeping through her skin. Her nerves buzzed in ragged-white lines, connecting heart to hands. Here in Fenwater, she could move and help and do all the tasks she wanted.</p><p>The scent of the mint water called her attention; she stopped for a cup and found it still cool the way it had been in the river. Energy reappeared to Tillian as she drank. She needed to follow her own advice and care for herself, or else she had no place advising Rose.</p><p>Rose was that ever-present figure in Tillian's edge of vision, the one wobbling from bed to bed. She was wilting. Anyone could see that. Tillian picked a second cup – a cheerful-coloured cup with brushstrokes marking the paint – and filled it with water and bruised mint leaves. Her heart hurt as she crept to the edge of Vilhelm's sheets, to Rose's side. Sitting, preparing, she curled her tail around her toes.</p><p>“Rose?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Rose knelt beside her villager, staring downward, her mouth a dry-cut line. Her answer sounded far away, a pebble bouncing into a ravine.</p><p>“You should rest, Rose,” Fahras said, passing by with a sloshing bucket. He caught Tillian's eyes; <span class="u">help her</span>, he said, ears quivering. <span class="u">I don't know how</span>.</p><p>Sometimes people forgot that they needed strength for themselves. Everyone got used to truths like that and misplaced them in the daily bustle of things; they needed to be reminded, that was all. Tillian picked up Rose's spine-knuckled hand and wrapped it around the mint water cup; this friend glowed warm compared to the cup's cool surface.</p><p>“Thank you,” Rose breathed. She gripped the cup and made no move to drink.</p><p>“How is he?”</p><p>Vilhelm squeaked, then. Not the way he had been squeaking all along, a gradual-building rasp – this was a choking sound, a sudden, strangled cry that shot electricity through Tillian.</p><p>Rose laid a hand on his throat, and glowed green only long enough for the floundering sound to fade. She didn't flinch. She must not have had the strength to flinch, sitting there sweat-damp and enduring.</p><p>“He's not well.”</p><p>If only there were a way Vilhelm could lean on something. Like a chair to support a weary traveller – something solid for a person's throat to rest against. If he could take in his air without the demon's grip in the way, he might be able to collect his strength and fight.</p><p>“Hey, Rose,” came Breeli's voice over the bed rows, “Belladonna needs you.”</p><p>“I'll look after it,” Tillian said without thinking. She bolted for a healing stone and brought it to the sleeping woman's side. And as she gathered herself to cast, Tillian saw the message in Breeli's flat-eared glance: <span class="u">Rose is still being Rose. Maybe she'll listen to you.</span></p><p>Another burst of plantcasting and Belladonna breathed smoother. Stuffing the plantcasting back into its stone came easily now, even though a mage would probably do a less tangled job of it. Tillian returned to Rose's side.</p><p>“How many stones are left,” Rose asked, toneless, hoarse.</p><p>“Two full ones, and I think I can get another use from this stone here. Please drink something, Rose.”</p><p>Her lips twitched argument; she raised the cup, and swallowed stiff and laboured. Then, wth a grey sigh, Rose rubbed her eyelids. “I was hoping another messenger would arrive in Peregrine's wake. We had best save those stones, if we can. I'll look after folk.”</p><p>“It's going to get worse?”</p><p>Time hung leaden around them. Rose stilled her rubbing hand, throat working.</p><p>“The worst is nearly on us,” she said. “I think the steam is helping, since they're all sleeping soundly. But many of them will become like Vilhelm. They'll– They'll need us to live.”</p><p>If Tillian had wings, she would have flown a dozen trips by now, finding gifts of healing stones and bringing all she could carry. That thought sat inside her like a pouting child. Flying errands wasn't easy and she knew that; she had felt effort straining through Peregrine enough times to understand. Tillian touched her pendant, turning the friendly-strange copper on its cord.</p><p>“The stones we have aren't that big,” she said. “I think the biggest one holds four or five doses of healing. Maybe six if we're there to treat them quickly enough.”</p><p>“I should've taught other folk to plantcast,” Rose sighed. “Or found true-hearted korvi, or ... Well. Tillian, get some rest, if you would?”</p><p>Her ears splayed before she could stop them. “You need the help, though.”</p><p>“I'll manage.” Rose looked away and her voice fell to a sticky, secretive croak. “I have enough plantcasting in me to share. It's my body that might not last. I'd feel lands better if I knew you had some more strength in you. For later.”</p><p>Tillian looked at the frills of her sarong, dust-caked and limp on her toes. <span class="u">Yes</span>, she wanted to say, <span class="u">whatever you want, Rose</span>, but this was more fragile than any normal favour.</p><p>“I'll get some sleep if you promise to get some right after me,” Tillian said. “You need to gather your strength from somewhere, too.”</p><p>“I'll try.”</p><p>“And drink more? Please?”</p><p>Rose's lips pressed tight. She lifted the cup. She might have been swallowing ceramic shards for all the stiff movements her throat made, for all the grimness lining her face.</p><p>Tillian went on quiet feet to the nest corner, through the muted sounds of ferrin breathing. It had only been a day, she knew, but the twenty-three hours warped and twisted together, an illusion wavering in the heat of hard work. These new friends were near enough to family and it already felt like well-woven routine, picking a sleeping spot among Fenwater ferrin. Three of the kittens curled together now, a patchwork of white-black-grey. Tillian chose an outside edge of their pile, and curled into herself, and settled. The children molded to her arms and flanks, sighing without a sound.</p><p>Lying still was a delicious feeling. The sarong and pendant lumps around Tillian's body failed to matter, but voices still pulled at her ears. Breeli and Fahras spoke in quick syllables – as hushed as Breeli could manage, which wasn't very – and then the conversation was gone. Paws approached. They pattered over the dirt and onto the blankets' creases, muffled and careful.</p><p>Tillian didn't open her eyes. This was Fahras, smelling as worried-stale as ever, large and present.</p><p>“You're resting, too,” she asked. The kittens didn't stir.</p><p>“Oh, you're awake?” Fahras spoke careful, gentle as featherdown. “I'm supposed to rest so I have enough strength left for later. Same as you.”</p><p>Fur glided on fur, as Fahras's tail brush passed down her back and away. He wormed closer and murmured by her ear, “Tillian? Do you know if it's hard to learn new casting?”</p><p>The instant his words soaked in, she knew what he intended to do. Tillian turned and couldn't see more than a halo of Fahras's bone-white fur.</p><p>“I've heard about people learning new castings, in Skyfield ... It sounded like it took them a dozen sessions with the mage just to get the feel of a new element. People say the hard part is knowing what exactly they're trying to call.”</p><p>“Yeah ... I know what basic plantcasting feels like from when the Irvings do it. It's just like a living plant. Um, it crunches the same, I guess you could say.”</p><p>Blankets stirred as Fahras settled, a dozen motions sliding against Tillian's pelt; he radiated heat against her back.</p><p>“I don't know if I can figure out how to plantcast in time,” he said. “I don't even electricast much, staying in town like I do. But I want to try. They've ... They've been good to me. Especially Cliffton.”</p><p>Rose couldn't help him with this. She was weighed down enough, sustaining enough casting strength for the other aemets, ignoring her own troubles. Learning a casting would mean Fahras moving a whole mountain by himself, hefting it on his wide shoulders and heading in what he hoped was the right direction. Then again, people did great things when they cared so hard for their loved ones. They did glorious legend things. A rock sank in Tillian's stomach.</p><p>“I might be able to help,” she said, “since I know what plant healing feels like coming out.”</p><p>Fahras hummed answer. “All right. We'll just do what we can.”</p><p>This was as close to Redessence as Tillian could want, curled up pillowed in friends' fur, wondering who to support next. She listened to the hearth coals snapping, and felt Fahras sigh his tension away before she floated into sleep.</p><p>Unease yanked behind Tillian's eyes, spurring her awake to stare at the burlap folds in front of her. She had never been much good at sleeping away her worries; she listened too carefully to stop noticing things. She was noticing something in this bleary-sharp moment and she couldn't tell what.</p><p>Judging by the violet light smearing down through hearth smoke, she had slept for hours and here was another night. Tillian rose – two kits squirmed in their sleep – and she took the chance to run her tongue over her fur. There hadn't been enough time to groom properly, or else she had been given a few idle clicks and she hadn't thought to use them. She stretched to reach her shoulder blade; she listened to someone's feet crossing the blankets, until a touch alighted on her back.</p><p>“Hope you slept well, kit,” Breeli said. She dropped to the blankets beside Tillian, letting a breath rush out. “Rose took some broth, after an hour of jabbing at her. Verdana must tear her hair out watching that one.”</p><p>“She might rest while I'm awake. I'll do what I can.” Tillian gave a nod to Niro; he came to curl into the sleep-warm space Tillian left behind.</p><p>Muttering something grateful, Breeli wriggled deeper into her pile of family.</p><p>After a last, hurried grooming stroke, Tillian looked around the steam-heavy house. Fahras was gone, maybe finding something vital to carry back. Rose knelt at someone's bedside. Three kits hopped among the bed rows, changing wet cloths with practiced motions. One of them stopped beside the ferrin bed to stare, his ears twitching lower when Tillian's gaze landed on him.</p><p>“Pardon me,” he said. This was Sylas Jalaran, the one who didn't speak much – not that Tillian had heard.</p><p>“It's no trouble.” She plucked up enough warm feelings to smile with. “What is it?”</p><p>“There's someone with a bad throat.” Sylas Jalaran led her to a bedside, and he had nothing else to add.</p><p>It was Cliffton again, raking for his breath. Maybe he was worsening the same way as Vilhelm, weakening even when doses of plantcasting were measured out regular for him. Tillian glanced to Rose's unmoving shape, and fetched the smaller, cloudier healing stone. She had to save the big quartz for that hazy sense of <span class="u">later</span>.</p><p>She packed the plantcasting back into its stone afterward, guiding each plantspark careful. And in the moment she settled back into her skin, watching Cliffton, he opened his eyes to wet slivers.</p><p>“You're not Fahras,” he said in a frog's voice, “Who ...”</p><p>Tillian gave her name, even though Cliffton settled back into sleep before she finished saying the words. Maybe Cliffton heard her anyway; maybe he airsensed the shapes her tongue made, or felt her will in the air. She wondered if any of Fenwater's sick folk remembered her name, and supposed that it didn't matter, not really.</p><p>Sylas Jalaran hurried past, the rags in his mouth bouncing with his four-footed stride. His ears were laid back determined, like he forged through brush and storm water. He was taking his job seriously.</p><p>The kittens knew gravity because there had been plenty of chances to overhear it. Tillian had been that small once, flicking an ear and catching a shard of Peregrine or Giala's murmuring. <span class="u">Hush, the kittens'll hear.</span> Of course the kittens heard – especially Tillian the earferrin-to-be. What weaselkind didn't hear, they felt shivering along their whiskers and they caught whiffs in people-thick air. Tillian wondered what Breeli and Niro's children were going to remember. The time-eroded shape of their first real duty, maybe. Bleached pieces of that time their whole village needed them.</p><p>Tillian went to each sick bed in turn; Arlin had a worrisome bur to his breath-sounds, and so did a woman farther down the row. Come back to them soon, Tillian reminded herself. Listen, always. She checked a half dozen things – the hearth fire, the steam pails, faces tightening against fever dreams – while she went to to the mage's side.</p><p>Rose slumped like a tired horse at Vilhelm's beside. A squeak broke free from Vilhelm and was gone as soon as it began, snipped off by Rose's glowing palm: plantcasting scent choked the air here, dark and wilting, the last dregs of tea wrung from spent herbs. A needle of uneasiness slid into Tillian's gut and made her creep close before saying anything. Rose moved too smoothly, more like greased wheels than a real person.</p><p>“How is he?”</p><p>Rose pushed her throat to motion; her voice came out stiff and cracking. “He can't last anymore.”</p><p>Vilhelm was dying. No shock formed in Tillian – just a feeling cool and heavy and not large enough. She wanted the plantcasting stone close again, the clean facets in her hands, as if she could cast this truth away with her new skills. She shuffled closer to Rose.</p><p>“Is there anything we can do?”</p><p>Rasping soaked the air around them. Rose shook her head.</p><p>“He struggles as soon as the casting is gone. I've ... I've tried everything I know. When they need this much healing, this often, it– It means the demon's hold is too strong.”</p><p>He wasn't just dying; he was facing defeat. He was losing everything he hadn't wanted to wager. Tillian leaned on Rose, molding against her side to share warmth, listening to the storm beating frightened through her veins. Dying was hard. Not for the person doing it – people died all the time – but for their family and friends, for everyone who had to watch them go.</p><p>“Then, we have to help him go?”</p><p>“Nothing left but ...” Rose yanked for breath. Her eyes glimmered wet. “Vilhelm darkcasts. To match the marsh water. We can't use bright on him, gods, I haven't dark healed anyone since–”</p><p>“I saw some dark stones in your house. You don't have to do it, Rose, I can–”</p><p>“Fetch me one, would you?”</p><p>How much would it take to drain Rose to nothing? How sweat-weak could her scent get, how much more could she give away? Tillian hesitated, then ran, through the night to Rose's stacks of supplies. She dug out a glass-lustrous amethyst. Someone chiselled it from the earth so it could help people, but they couldn't have guessed it would end up in Rose's hands, demanding her strength. Tillian clasped it to her aching chest and hurried back.</p><p>Fahras held the door curtain for her, pushing new-brought firewood out of the way. Tillian's eyes caught his, and she let her doubt and worry show brief all over her body. She flicked her tailtip – toward Rose and she supposed she should have been relieved that Fahras nodded solemn. Both of them lolloped to Rose, taking their places at her either side. Both of them knew how deep the need was, however slippery the words for this could be. Fahras didn't know if he could make any difference, his worry-shifting expression said, but he would be close by.</p><p>“Rose?” Tillian approached ginger; her footfalls sounded loud, nearly rude. “Here you are.”</p><p>Steady, glaze-eyed, Rose placed her free hand on the darkcasting stone and her fingers clutching bloodless. Her other hand stayed on Vilhelm's throat, palm tented over him like protection.</p><p>“There are always some who can't fight,” she said. “They just don't– They don't have the strength to– Oh, Great Ones, I <span class="u">can't</span>.”</p><p>“Rose,” Tillian said, as another surge of green magic reeked in the air, “you can't keep fighting for him. You need your strength, too.”</p><p>“If I had done, I don't know, something for him–” Her voice broke into hiccups now, her head dropping toward her chest. “He'd be fine if I just– Gods, why? What about Clover, what will she do without her father?”</p><p>Live without him. Clover would carry on and remember sometimes that her loved ones were somewhere else. Life in the land was turbulent and full of colors, and after a while, it stopped. Tillian didn't know if that thought tasted the same for other kinds. She looked across Rose's lap to Fahras; he knew what Clover would do, too, and both of them stumblingly said nothing.</p><p>“Kit. Don't say stuff like that. Never know who's awake.”</p><p>Rose trembled, as Breeli came on four plodding feet and climbed into her lap.</p><p>“Fah, see if you ever listen to me, anypace,” Breeli muttered, pillow-soft. “You've done what you can. You've done more than you can. And everybody's time comes, and life goes on. Always does.”</p><p>“I know.” Rose rasped. “I know.”</p><p>Vilhelm's squeak of breath returned, pitiless, overtaking the quiet.</p><p>“It's to be kind to them,” Tillian said, “isn't it? Using bright or darkcasting at the end?”</p><p>With a jerk of a nod, Rose lifted the stone. She rested it on Vilhelm's weak-heaving chest. “It eases any pain they're in, so they pass easily. So it turns out peaceful. That's the only merciful thing to do.”</p><p>“You know it is,” Breeli said. “Come on, now. Help him.”</p><p>A gulp stuttered in Rose's throat. She wrapped both hands around the stone, shifting her weight. “Verdana, Dark, all gods.”</p><p>Darkcasting flared in her grasp. Wine-purple glow crawled over her fingers, spreading into Vilhelm, scenting the air like cool night. It didn't stop the sound. His squeaking rose to a peak, raking the air, making Tillian's worries cling tighter to one another. Strain tugged along his limbs and his breathing rhythm broke apart, feeble sounds and spasming muscles. And then he went slack. He shivered just once. His breathsounds were gone, squeezed to nothing.</p><p>Time waited. Vilhelm was still and the quiet returned with one less rasping sound to break it; Rose's hands curled tight, shrivelling away from the casting stone.</p><p>“I can help them pass,” she said, keening like wind, “if there's nothing else–”</p><p>Friends jostled close. Kittens joined the family cluster, nudging in because everyone could help with this part. Ferrinkind surrounded Rose like blankets as she choked and began to cry.</p><p>A fresh willow twig, Breeli said. It had to be a leafy one. And the ceremony called for a different flower depending on which day of the month the aemet died: the fifth of the month was a flareflower, or maybe it was the sixth, or the twenty-fifth. Breeli threw up her hands and said to just bring a flareflower, because she wasn't about to bother Rose to ask.</p><p>Sleep still fogged Niro's eyes, but he darted out into the forest as soon as he was asked. He was back an eightmoment later with leaves and blossoms cradled between his teeth – he brought three types of flowers, to be sure that one of them was named <span class="u">flareflower</span> in commontongue.</p><p>They tucked plant sprigs into the deceased's folded hands, like they were supposed to. The burial sheet wrapped around him four times exactly. Tillian imagined Vilhelm would weigh more, but when it was balanced between four grown ferrin's hands, his bundle felt hardly any larger than a stiff-quiet sylph; he was no trouble to carry.</p><p>When they had piled leaf litter high enough over the shroud, and rolled a few logs on top, the four of them looked to each other in the dull-purple dawn.</p><p>“We should have waited.” Fahras shifted on his feet. “There aren't enough of us.”</p><p>“Friends and family,” Breeli said. “Nobody's ever pinned down how many friends or family it has to be, so let's get on with it. For Rose's sake.”</p><p>For Rose's sake, they had to send Vilhelm back into Verdana's care, back into the restoring cycle of things. Tillian shuffled closer – over clammy soil, so Vilhelm must have wholly liked the marshes to get a resting place like this – to straighten the leaf pile's edges with her toes. “Should we say something? Do aemets do that?”</p><p>Another moment crawled past, not quiet as long as treetops fidgeted above them. Tillian dug into her memory and found no answers. Just the pyres Peregrine and Giala made for their family. Just Peregrine with firelight flickering over him, his face set stony and cut deep with shadows.</p><p>“Talking is nice,” Niro decided.</p><p>Breeli gazed limp at the ground. “Think I should do the honours?”</p><p>Slipping closer to her, Niro nudged encouragement. “He might like it.”</p><p>Breeli sighed. Then she straightened to match the trees. “All right. Great Ones watch our friend, Vilhelm Durant, husband and father to the Saranstas family. Take better care of him than we could.”</p><p>“He fought bravely,” Fahras said. He looked up, like his own voice gave him courage. “So we should think of how brave he was against the demon and keep doing our best.”</p><p>Tillian watched the motionless heap of leaves; she could still see sleeping-tense faces when she closed her eyes, including Vilhelm's, including his tight frown and the lines around his eyes like roots creasing the earth. She had nothing to say about this man. She was only imagining that she knew him. Tillian nodded and in her edge of vision, Niro did, too.</p><p>“Come on,” Breeli said, “the others need us. Vilhelm ... We'll all miss you.”</p><p>There was nothing left to say as they turned toward Fenwater; they moved quicker on the way back because they had no one to carry.</p><p>Tillian wondered what it meant, exactly, to be brave. She thought of how much Vilhelm's frown had looked like Peregrine's, however differently their faces were shaped. Peregrine was probably just getting up at this hour, rolling his shoulders until they agreed to move for him, fanning the embers of his strength. Peregrine was brave. Being brave meant trying – nothing else, just pushing forward, just trying. It could mean fighting an untouchable demon, or it could just mean making a choice that would hurt someone no matter what. People needed to be brave to live their lives at all, really.</p><p>The four of them held their ears level as they reached the main street and smelled mint steam on the wind. They put on brave faces that day, while brightcasting bled into the land.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Peregrine presented the supply pouches, Ethen opened them to run his fingertips over herb leaves; negotiating the pouch knot appeared to take every mote of concentration he had.</p><p><span class="u">This is a fine start, Peregrine, thank you.</span> He chose a Valeover rosehip, crushed it a token amount between unsteady fingers, and dropped it into his tea. <span class="u">Have you heard about any more supplies headed here, or healers?</span></p><p>“I didn't hear a thing from the mage herself, other than wishing you well. Although, word in the street says Hotrock is having troubles of their own.” He frowned. “You should be saving your strength.”</p><p>A grudging sound shook Ethen. <span class="u">He humphed</span>, Tillian offered, <span class="u">Or maybe sniffed</span>.</p><p>Opens needs all the strength I can give it, I fear. The Fenwater folk are in their roughest patch now and Daisy– Dear Daisy, she was glowing with fever last I saw her, but she's still doing the goddess's work. I hope her sister learns how to knuckle down that way.</p><p>Ethen shuddered, tensing around his own throat like a failed efforts to clear it. Much as Peregrine wished it, head-Tillian couldn't reveal how Ethen sounded right now. He was facing gripthia himself, that much was plain: there had to be a rasping sound stalking his every breath.</p><p>Peregrine, I must thank you again, for doing what you're told.</p><p>Whatever state his hearing was in, Peregrine did like to believe he could follow basic instructions.</p><p>
  <span class="u">I haven't heard back from the other korvi fellow I sent to Fenwater, gods only know where she is.</span>
</p><p>“She wouldn't have taken your stones? It happens in times like these.”</p><p><span class="u">It did sound as though she had aemet friends in Greenway ...</span> A frown marred Ethen's face, and he said, <span class="u">She can plead her intentions to the Great Hound, I suppose. I'll give you another bag of stones for Fenwater.</span></p><p>Peregrine lifted a brow. “You don't need your own stones?”</p><p><span class="u">We do. But if Hotrock hasn't sent anyone to Fenwater by now, there's no more good in waiting. Rose must want so badly for help.</span> Ethen shook his head. <span class="u">I'd never sleep again if I stood by and did nothing. I'll choose some stones to send you away with, and we'll take each hour as it comes. Does that sound fair?</span></p><p>A settlement the size of Hotrock Volcano – eight thousand people, the last time anyone had troubled to count – was failing to send even a grain of help to their neighbours. Such bustling about and no one was getting a thing done; the thought jabbed at Peregrine's coals.</p><p>“Give me half an hour to catch my breath,” he said, “and I'll go anywhere you want.”</p><p>Ethen smiled wan. He looked ten years older than he had yesterday, his tunic creased like he had slept in it, his eyes deep and mirrored.</p><p>Thank you. Truly.</p><p>As though there were other choices Peregrine could make without his soul crying injustice. He stood, ruffling his wings, pushing away his cup of the berry mull Ethen never seemed to run out of.</p><p>“Thank me when this is over.”</p><p>Peregrine would spend his resting time with a drink of something revitalizing, he decided. Laced with a few leaves of mint and perhaps a drop of brandy to blunt his nerves. Then he would be on his way, reminding himself that Giala might only be a swift breeze away from him.</p><p>Crowds felt manageable now. There was a simple method to the navigation, a pattern he could teach to a ferrin kitten in a matter of moments. Keep his attention moving; don't linger on any one face or basket or or pair of gesturing hands. Use the full periphery of his vision; see every broad wagon and small-bolting ferrin. Notice everything; don't sink away into his own thoughts. Peregrine practiced now, replacing his hearing with his sight, taking in the populated streets around him. Korvi had the keenest eyes of any kind, after all. He would do well to use his own strengths instead of wishing for Tillian's.</p><p>Listening with his eyes was a simple task in the korvi and ferrin end of town. Everyone had ample space to walk, and each fellow focused on their own hurrying. Perhaps some of these passing dragonkind were former miners, too – a self-stroking thought but not an impossible one, here within a day's strong flight of Hotrock Volcano's rich deposits. Most of the korvi around Peregrine held their wings propped open against the possibility of crowds, against the stifling spaces their bird bones hated: most propped their wings, but not all. Ways and airs, Syril said, made miners distinctive. Those things could be cast off like smoke onto wind, if a person put their mind to it.</p><p>A flash of yellow caught Peregrine's eye – someone dragonkind, just beyond a house's corner. Giala, he thought instantly, and felt foolish nearly as quickly; he was spoiled on the sight of her fair feathers. Or else just tired enough to feel homesick.</p><p>In a slow-pouring instant, a time and space plucked from a dream, Giala truly did round the corner. Her wax-spiny mane feathers swayed as she looked about. She caught sight of Peregrine and her smile shone, a delighted patina. Peregrine stared dumb for whole heartbeats before he began to smile, himself.</p><p>“Well, Peregrine,” Giala called, high-pitched shards and crisp mouth movement, her arms spreading wide as she approached. “Imagine finding you here!”</p><p>He caught her and held tight, ferrin brushing warm around their ankles.</p><p>Giala pulled back, her dark eyes dancing. “Running off on errands without telling me, light? I never thought I'd see the day.”</p><p>“It was hardly my idea,” Peregrine said. He nodded to Wellis and Keevi – Della's absence was unfortunate, but no surprise. “You must have heard about the demon.”</p><p>“We did! What a terrible mess. I'd have brought every stone Maythwind has if I could carry them all.”</p><p>Wellis murmured something encouraging.</p><p>“You carried plenty,” Keevi chirped.</p><p>“Oh, only what I could manage!” Staring sudden at Peregrine's shoulder, Giala asked, “Where's Tillian?”</p><p>Caring for others. Perhaps needing care herself, for all Peregrine knew. He didn't speak immediately; Giala's smile fell.</p><p>“She's in Fenwater, where she's needed,” Peregrine said. He looked to the street dust. “And it seems that I'm a passable messenger.”</p><p>Giala's hand molded to his jaw. She looked at him like appraisal, perhaps guessing how many bushels of plums she might swap for a strong man who had begun to splinter at his edges.</p><p>“I believe you make a fine messenger,” Giala said. “It doesn't matter if you get the lines of a story wrong, so long as you perform it well. And watching you walk here, light, by yourself? I'd never guess that you've spent a hundred years in the mines.”</p><p>Giala had flung herself headlong into plenty of trades, draped new titles around her neck and only figured out later how her life pieced together. She proved that sort of madness possible. She might even teach Peregrine the nuances, if he cared to learn.</p><p>Wellis and Keevi watched the two of them, aglow with shared joy. Whether Peregrine's family held bias or not, he would accept their good word. Wrapping Giala's hand with his, he hesitated a moment before removing her touch from his face.</p><p>“I should hope I'm doing a decent job, if folk are counting on me. Where are you headed, then?”</p><p>“Fenwater. I heard they need whatever anyone can spare.”</p><p>“Every town does.”</p><p>Which was true, Peregrine thought as he heard his own words. He thought of dozens of Opens folk he barely knew, the ones who offered him a welcoming smile and didn't ask for names: the kit in the apron; the korvi generously filling stew bowls; the fret-lined young aemet he'd glimpsed once and been fairly sure she was the mage, Daisy. Behind them all, Ethen leaned his weight against the town to hold it up. Sustaining folk made a larger scale of sense, however reckless town leaders could be about it.</p><p>It felt like thin-spread years since every member of Redessence clan had converged on a task at once. But here they all were, Peregrine thought as his heart quickened and his two bare shoulders felt balanced. His mate and children were at his side, whether here or elsewhere. In a way, working for others was no foreign task to Peregrine: leaders worked for their people and every clan had a head to lead it. He simply had a larger area to think of than usual, more distance and more faces.</p><p>He turned boulders over in his head for a moment. Then he regarded Giala. “Right now, you ought to visit Ethen just to meet him. He's keeping track of all the movement east of Hotrock and he'll want to know what you're able to do. I was headed to Fenwater already – let me take Wellis and Keevi, and anything you're meant to bring.”</p><p>Giala nodded. Wellis and Keevi stood tall beside her, a son of Zitan's talented bloodline and a clever daughter of the forest, mates like a pair of shoes. They could fall in at Tillian's side and be the skilled hands Fenwater needed – Peregrine himself would make sure of it.</p><p>“Do what you can, light,” Giala said. She untied a gem-bulging pouch, glancing up through her mane feathers. “But I'm wasting my breath by telling you that, aren't I?”</p><p>“I am deaf, you know.”</p><p>“Only when you want to be.” She folded his hands around the gem pouch, warm in touch, warm in the shine of her eyes. “I suppose I'll see you later, then?”</p><p>“Look after Ethen for a while, if you would,” Peregrine blurted – the thought of pressing onward, stubborn and alone, was a chafe in his gut. “He's trying to manage too much and he's liable to work himself to nothing. You deal well with that sort of person, love.”</p><p>“He likely needs a good nip at his heels, that's all,” Giala replied. “Would you me show me to his house?”</p><p>He could spare a moment for Opens. Peregrine rejoined the crowd currents; his family followed and he didn't need to look back to be sure.</p><p>Despite the announcing knock on his door poles, Ethen looked up from his mortar and pestle like jolting awake.</p><p>“I've found some more hands you might have a use for,” Peregrine said.</p><p>Ethen nodded. <span class="u">Of course, it's– Erm.</span> He watched Wellis and Keevi head for the boiling pail of mull, straight as flight. <span class="u">That's hot, friends, do be careful.</span></p><p>This was hardly the first hot-bubbling pail they had lifted off coals, thanks to their clever technique of one ferrin bracing the other's weight-bearing arms. Keevi looked up from Wellis's elbows. “Don't worry!”</p><p>Wellis murmured, his teeth locked with effort.</p><p>“No, letting berry mull reach a rolling boil is bad for the flavours,” Keevi said. “We have it, friend. Sit tight!”</p><p><span class="u">I ... All right.</span> Ethen watched them, thought twitching across his features. <span class="u">Are these two my helping hands?</span></p><p>“I'm bringing them to Fenwater with me. What I meant by hands,” and Peregrine gestured toward his dear mate, “is Giala of Heriette. This is Ethen, leader of Opens.”</p><p>“Fine to meet you,” she said, with a flash of wing feathers.</p><p>
  <span class="u">Ah. Wonderful! Thank you for coming, we're glad for your aid.</span>
</p><p>“No trouble,” she sang, heading to Ethen's side, taking his arm as he stood. “But if I may say so, you've been doing plenty! I could see that even before I landed here. Please, fellow, I think you ought to lie down.”</p><p>Protest spluttered out of Ethen but he followed Giala's guidance toward his own bed; there was no way to flee and no worth in fighting.</p><p>“No, truly, take some rest. Forgive me, but you look tired! Sit down and you can catch me up to speed, and I'll fly wherever you please after that.” Giala looked to Peregrine, smiling, her tail flicking mischievous. “We'll be fine here. Good winds to you, light.”</p><p>Peregrine nodded. “Mind the details: those are the part that bite. Wellis, Keevi.”</p><p>They left the mull pail where it sat – at the end of a trail dragged into the floor sand – and bolted to follow Peregrine.</p><p>“Fenwater is going to be fine, Ethen,” he said, pausing in the door's arch. “I'll be on my way there now and see what else they need fetched. If Hotrock sends anything, keep it for yourselves.”</p><p>The last glimpse Peregrine got was of Ethen under lifted bedsheets, with puzzled relief melting his face.</p><p>The Opens crowds lingered thinly now. Peregrine's clan-children lolloped alongside him, one at each side.</p><p>With a touch to Peregrine's calf, Wellis asked, <span class="u">Are we leaving right away?</span></p><p>Keevi murmured to him, and added, “Could we get something to eat first? Just a small bite.”</p><p>Peregrine turned toward the visitors' neighbourhood, toward the homes with cooking coals' heat rising clear from their roofs. He entertained the thought of carrying the ferrin for a moment – just Wellis, perhaps, for his familiar dove-coloured fur. For the bristle touch of eartips on the side of his head. But Peregrine knew those sensations well enough. Having company by his ankles was plenty, for an old man who could manage himself.</p><p>“I'm sure these folk have a meal to share. But you'll need to finish quickly. We have places to be.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Syril found a peculiar satisfaction in tiring his wings. Not the leaden sort of tired – goodness, no, that made a fellow useless as a straw hammer. Rather, Syril liked the bodily thrum that meant he had flown a few hundred furlongs in quick time and could do it again if he wished. It made landing in East Hotrock a wholesome feeling, a veritable reward.</p><p>If there was any benefit to spending decades as a merchant, it was that Syril had a generous string of locations to train his wings toward. He would visit his nearest locations – the farmers and foragers scattered about the base of the Volcano – and wheedle some gem-shining deals out of those good folk. Good Bright still had enough light left in the day for that. Yes, Syril had a hive of thoughts inside his head, humming and waggling and ready to fly; he only needed to finish the immediate errand before he could head off swarming.</p><p>The real thorn of finding Tijo was that all of East Hotrock knew the fellow's face – which meant everyone and their cousins had vague suggestions on which direction Tijo had gone. Syril wandered the Volcano's tunnel roads, up and down the mazes, asking folk to point the way, without catching so much as a glimpse of Tijo. Eightmoments drained away; the time could have been spent bargaining for some much-needed mint, or carrying a memorized few words someplace. Anything except walking in circles. Syril felt his feathers hackling while he made a third circuit of Korrentun district's main road, resenting this third chance to look at its striped weavings decorating the ceiling. Imagine wandering about like a lost mole at a time like this.</p><p>A red tie caught his gaze – wrapped around a ferrin's tail, vanishing around a corner. Tail ties could belong to anybody with a mind to wear one and Syril followed it anyway, hurrying around that corner, around a throng of folk chattering in korvitongue. Gods bless him with a lakeful of luck, he had found Red Tie – trotting odd on three paws, clutching dark feathers to her chest and picking up another when it fell from Tijo's ragged wing. Tijo himself weaved through the fiery korvikind crowds, brisk, focused. Leaving one task accomplished and looking for another, no doubt.</p><p>“My friend,” Syril called, bounding to his side, managing not to jostle a passing korvi child, “you hide like an earthbird, if I may say so!”</p><p>“Syril.” Tijo's tailtip swished; his posture squared. “This had best be important. The demon is spreading.”</p><p>“What? Here?”</p><p>Turning a corner, Tijo shot a glance around. They now stood in a corridor that seemed hardly more than a worm's path, lit with a fading electric stone, quiet as night. Perfect for discussing unpleasantries.</p><p>“Yes, here.” Tijo sighed, turning to Syril. “Fifteen newly ill among our farmers this morning. They were mingling with their own kind all night, so we're bound to see more fall ill within the next few hours. If none of them paid a visit to the other towns of Hotrock, we'll be fortunate, indeed.”</p><p>“Gods around us!” If the demon kept roaming at a pace like this, every town Syril had visited in this month would soon be hamstrung. All those healthy lines of commerce, cut in their prime. Syril took a reassuring handful of his own trade-quality necklace beads. “Have folk been ignoring your quarantine, the poor souls?”</p><p>“Not that the magelings can tell. Folk have been staying put. The demon will follow an aemet and watch who she talks to, but the dratted thing could have grown bored and followed the wind for all we know.”</p><p>That was the piercing quality of sickness – the way no one truly understood demons. All the curatives in the land couldn't keep gripthia from creeping up behind folk, odourless and colourless and stirring no air. There wasn't even any talking with the things, as much as Syril liked to think that words always helped. Friendly little building blocks, words.</p><p>“I heard this from the sparrows, mind you,” he said, “but sylphs are turning up stiff as posts. I'm told that three of them were found by the hills entrance, just today! My friend, if there's any sign of bad fortune, that's a wretched one.”</p><p>Tijo hummed. A glance passed between him and Red Tie. “True. And sylphs are betweenkind. If the demon takes them, and then gets tempted off toward aemetkind ... Let's fly with that idea, we can't afford more friends to fall ill. We'll need to burn any sylphs found whole and dead.”</p><p>Syril winced. “Must we? It'll shake aemet kin up something terrible.”</p><p>“No more than their own neighbours dying.” Tijo ran a palm over his face – a moment of bonelessness so brief that Syril hardly realized what he was seeing – and he resumed walking. “Redditi, tell everyone what's to be done with dead sylphs. Come home when you've finished.”</p><p>She squeaked obedient. Red Tie, Redditi – Syril had been close enough. She bolted away, around ankles, against Korrentun district traffic.</p><p>“Then,” Syril tried, hurrying again to Tijo's side, dodging around a yellow-feathered couple and offering them a quick-said apology, “shall I help you pass that message along? Or just keep the wheels turning on some aid for Fenwater?”</p><p>Tijo stopped. His head bowed. The tunnel walls were flat and far distant; dozens of murmuring dragonkind around them were suddenly thin as blowing leaves.</p><p>“How many are in Fenwater right now,” Tijo asked, “twenty-eight?”</p><p>“I believe so. Plus their mage and their ferrin and whatall else, blazes, I just talked to Ethen the other day about what those dear folk need but I'm sure a few good runners would–”</p><p>“We can't.”</p><p>Syril's jaw fell open; a frightened burning spread through his innards. “Nothing? What about sending some folk as far as Opens?”</p><p>Shaking his head, Tijo spoke low. “The demon showed up first in the people of Fenwater, whole days ago. I'd guess that those folk are facing the worst of their fight at this very moment, while we're standing here discussing it. What are the odds that Hotrock healing stones arriving tonight or tomorrow will make so great a difference? Two lives might be saved? Three? I can't take that bet, Syril. Not with seven hundred and fifteen aemets living here, not with the demon wandering and the nearest willow trees two hours away by wings. I can't send reserves away from Hotrock.”</p><p>Quite the checker game Tijo played. There were too many pieces and a smeared board, and hardly enough time to regret his moves. Syril gulped, his level-laid plans suddenly seeming like toys in a broodery. “I suppose I'd best tell Fenwater that?” He hoped not: there would be no relish in telling folk to fend for themselves.</p><p>“Tell Ethen.” Tijo paused, thought drawing his mouth tight. “Don't tell Rose Tellig or anyone reporting to her, if you can avoid speaking that truth. It would only hurt Fenwater's spirits to know that we won't be sending aid. We'll pray to Verdana for them, I suppose. It's the least we can do.”</p><p>How final that sounded. Syril nearly watched Tijo leave, into the fire-feathered crowd, before he forced his jaw closed and hurried in that stoic wake.</p><p>“Yes, of course, I see where your wind blows, friend. Gods, the poor kin. I thought I'd run supplies to them after I'm done speaking with Ethen, how would that be? Don't fret for a moment, it'll be a gift from my own reserve of superb quality stock! I'll get two tasks done while I'm aloft.”</p><p>“Bless your wings, Syril. Do what you can.”</p><p>Syril flared his feathers. “You've got just the generous heart I was hoping for, friend! Not that there was one fleck of doubt!”</p><p>“Speaking about generous hearts.” A pause caught Tijo. He glanced over his shoulder at Syril, a brittle smile forming on him just like old times. “Your travellers are managing. That boy you brought me is holding on like a strangleweed, I'm told.”</p><p>Oh, that thought had a sheen to it that Syril wasn't sure he liked. He could still feel the bundle in his arms, still see the Volcano streaking closer but not quick enough by half. At least that child had spirit – no one got a whit of a thing done without a good feisty spirit, after all. Syril smiled crooked. “Well, thank everything's kindness for that! The dear little chestnut. How's his fever?”</p><p>“We've giving what we can.”</p><p>Just as Syril thought. There wasn't a gnat's chance in flames that a watercasting healer could spend all their time sitting by one boy's side – not while fevers burned more folk by the hour. As long as the child had enough wet cloths on him, he would likely manage, and any mage would tell that to Syril that as many times as he asked. It felt like a flushed cheek still laid in the crook of Syril's elbow. What a spook of a feeling that was.</p><p>“I don't doubt that you're doing everything you can,” Syril said, “and fortune smile on you for doing it, Tijo. I'll be off, then, no use flapping my mouth when there's better flapping to be done! Care for yourself, won't you?”</p><p>Tijo nodded farewell. Two shed feathers drifted behind him.</p><p>Instead of watching the mage disappear into his crowds of townsfolk, Syril turned, retracing his steps out of the Volcano. He had favours owed at the edges of the farming slopes, said his ever-shrewd business memory. If Syril couldn't work out a deal fit for everyone at a time like this, well, he could hardly call himself a merchant. The burning inside him began to feel more like strength.</p><p>Legend said that aemets were cousins to the ants, sisters to the trees, and the wise guardians of healing secrets whispered on the wind. Aemets told the truest legends, too, so Syril was inclined to believe all of that. He would swear on his own eggshells that there was help for Fenwater – someone simply needed to start that delivery on its way.</p><p>The aemet farmers of the west-southwestern Hotrock slopes made renowned good use of the day's gemlight. If their wide-scattered farming plots were any indication, they liked their work better than each others' company. But their choice of social furnishing was their own beeswax, and strike Syril down if they didn't grow the best leafy fare anyone had ever haggled over. He wheeled once on a thermal – looking down on all the gaps in the Volcano's sparse forest, every patch of manicured crop standing green – and he flapped toward the farthest field away. That crop belonged to a delight of a fellow who had plenty of stores and stashes; Syril could practically feel opportunity within his fist.</p><p>Wend stood outside well before Syril circled over his house to land. A personshape like Wend's was curious enough to tell stories about: hunch-shelled with age, hands crossed on top of a knobby walking stick, the creases in his brow visible from a day's flight away. If aemets were kin to trees, Wend must have shared a bloodline with the gnarled little mountain maples that clung to bare rock.</p><p>“Ah, Wend,” Syril called as his toeclaws touched earth, “fine to see you, my dear friend, you're looking greener today or else my eyes are playing tricks!”</p><p>“You worm, what is it now?”</p><p>Syril bowed deep. “Is your dear wife in?”</p><p>“Out gathering coneflower.” Wend stared through him with faded-brown eyes. “You could use some coneflower, I'd imagine?”</p><p>“I could indeed, give your good sense a prize because it's right! Have you heard about the demon, friend?”</p><p>Wend harrumphed. He resettled his hands on his stick and considered the breeze blowing between them; fifty years of foragers' wisdom stirred between his ears and that was plenty, considering. Syril settled onto his tail to wait.</p><p>“I heard about it,” Wend decided. “Not that news much matters. Still the same demon as ever.”</p><p>“You've got a point, yes, indeed.” Everything had its obvious habits and there was no sense trying to paint that horse another colour. “But this demon outbreak needs the same supplies as ever and it's not like a Reyardine to loaf about useless! Poor beleaguered Fenwater is hardly a half-day's flight away, if the wind is fair for me, and I can have some fine product delivered before the herbs know they've been cut! Now, stop me if I'm wrong, my good Almast, but there's a whole crowd of things I ought to bring.” He began counting off fingers. “Mint is for everything weakened, rosehips are the next best thing to a meal, coneflower for ... Ahh, let's see.”</p><p>Wend stared at him – it felt like being measured, meat flensed off bones to be weighed. “Sickness stuck in the chest. The roots are best.”</p><p>“Of course, yes, it was on the tip of my tongue! Then, I'll need all the coneflower your lovely wife returns with.”</p><p>“And when can you fly to the east plains for me?”</p><p>Always fussing about goods in the eastern land, that Wend, that dear, scraggly stump of a fellow. Syril waved both hands. “When the demon is gone, I'll fly wherever you'd like, make a mark of it!”</p><p>“You'll check that it's the right variety this time?”</p><p>“Yes, yes, and I'll bring an extra bag if it'll put a dance in your step! You do recall the weather last time, don't you? Ah, my poor heart, I didn't have so much as an ember left after all that flapping. And didn't have a thing to trade for a meal!”</p><p>Wend frowned, pinching his wrinkles deeper. “You can have the coneflower, Reyardine. We've a few knuckles of mint and, oh, fine, take some nettles, too. Those are good for building strength back.”</p><p>“Wonderful,” Syril said, reining in his grin. The High Ones have never looked on a finer heart than yours, my good Almast. I dare say you'll be helping a hundred ailing folk if you fill the pouches high with cargo and I don't doubt that you'll do that!”</p><p>“Spare me your lip,” Wend muttered. Which meant Syril was welcome.</p><p>He received pouches filled with aid – the crisp leaves and flowers reached out through the drawstrings like light would still do them good. The heft made him blaze warm around his heart. Goods were never just goods: someone had to put their muscles behind every product in the land, every trinket and every crop leaf. It was an oddly pleasant change to think about folk being not just interested, but relieved in what the merchant brought.</p><p>That thought snagged in Syril's head and made him pause. Yes, he could think more on behalf of other folk, this time around. It wasn't difficult for a sharp mind, and he couldn't say he disliked the taste of charity: after all, folk were keeping him fed thus far. He still had a shred of carrot stuck tantalizing between his teeth, from a wedge of the Almast home's leftover rootloaf. Truly a savoury taste, generosity. Fit to chew on for days.</p><p>“Pardon my torn sack of a mind if I've asked you this before, friends,” Syril said. “Is there a curative plant to use for a fever? I dare think I should fetch some of it.”</p><p>Wend barked a laugh.</p><p>“Willow,” his wife said. “Verdana help anyone who needs that.”</p><p>Only willow bark, burn the stuff. It had a value too high to talk about -- for a passing merchant, anypace – and Syril had caught such a tongue-lashing the one time he offered to fly to a riverbank and find a tree.</p><p>Wend eyed Syril. “Is there salt in the wash water?”</p><p>“Ah, should there be?”</p><p>“It'll help them sweat.”</p><p>“A little salt never hurt anything,” his wife added.</p><p>Salt – now, there was a commodity Syril could talk trade about for a month straight. He added miners to his list of folk to bother, three fellows and their matching earferrin meshing into his thoughts.</p><p>“Plenty of thanks to you, friends,” Syril said, beaming bright. “That's a fine snippet to know!”</p><p>As Wend turned away, he muttered, “Do what you will with it.”</p><p>What Syril did was spur his fire hot and flap in through Tijo's landing skylight. He could spare a moment to ease his own fidgeting conscience; he had the strangest gut-sticking feeling that he had left a task unfinished and a Reyardine didn't leave his affairs spread awry. This was no time to go sticking his snout into every room in the volcano so he asked where the rescued aemet child was, and got a few pointing ferrin fingers in return.</p><p>Syril found one of East Hotrock's larger festival caverns now housing the demon's victims, and what a glum festival it was. Korvi and ferrin moved between lines of beds, frowning, checking with tentative hands. Coughs bounced up the cave walls, vanishing into the thicket of hanging flags; plantcasting scent cut through the humid air, uneven whiffs like trampled grass.</p><p>He didn't know the aemet boy, Syril realized as he walked, examining each green-flushed face. He had seen mostly short-cropped hair on top of a drooping young head, and the frantic waggling of antennae in flight wind. He wouldn't know his rescued child apart from a legend-told fellow and he didn't even have a name to ask for, gods, what a sorry state of affairs. No one deserved to be nameless.</p><p>Syril stopped, his gaze landing on an aemet. This one looked enough like the others: tunic bunched up; skin draped with cloths; body laying there limp as root peelings. He was young, though, and his size was right. This could be the young sprout who had glowed too hot against Syril's elbow. In fact, the brush-bristle cut of the boy's hair looked familiar, too. If someone had asked Syril to bet a handful of walnuts on it, he would have strongly considered the prospect.</p><p>So Syril stopped the first mageling to pass by – a dark-furred young ferrin who sat poised and tipped her head obliging. If Syril's memory earned its keep, this was Yinnika. Her name tasted like praise, thanks to all of East Hotrock buzzing about their new watercasting talent. According to Tijo – and no one was a finer judge – Yinnika couldn't be a more natural talent if she had been born to fish.</p><p>“If I might have a moment of your time,” Syril asked her, flourishing only a little, “who is this?”</p><p>Yinnika's ears fell. “Sorry, but we don't know. He's a traveller some kind soul flew in from the fields. Same with the three folk nearest to him.”</p><p>“I see,” Syril forced off his tongue. “Dreadful, yes!”</p><p>“You wouldn't know him, would you?”</p><p>“Not truly, no.” Syril scratched his mane. “It's simply the sight of him, it makes me a veritable bucket of, ah, well– How is he?”</p><p>“Managing. He's getting all the cool mist we can spare.”</p><p>A bit of care was all anyone could ask to borrow, really. Syril glanced to the boy; if sleeping folk were always so still, he had never noticed it before. Skies, but the shallow movement of that boy's chest didn't look like enough to sustain a wren.</p><p>“Of course,” Syril said. “Then, I'll say it on the lad's behalf, friend: thank you for everything so far and everything to come, too! It's a fine batch of work you healers are doing here, truest tale ever told. Have you got enough salt, by any chance?”</p><p>Yinnika smiled. There was a strange shade in her eyes, and a quirked angle to her ears. “We've got plenty. But thank you.”</p><p>Then someone called Yinnika's name across the endless beds; she gave Syril a nod, gentle as down feathers, and hurried away. She certainly moved like she had a head full of knowledge, trotting in lines straight as rulers, a fine mageling if ever Syril had seen one. If his compulsions were a plain sight for people like that, he supposed he could be exposed in worse ways.</p><p>All he had to occupy himself with now was shifting on his feet and looking again at the boy – who had all the help healers could spare and he still looked like a drooping cornstalk in drought. Hard to imagine this little fellow fighting for life when he'd barely begun living at all – at a skinny-limbed size like that, he was six years old, or seven. Or perhaps younger than that. Syril always seemed to guess high on other kinds' ages, frugal with time as their gods were.</p><p>And Syril had already spent three-quarters of his moment here, he thought like jabbing himself with a stick. He crouched to lay the backs of his fingers on the boy's cheek. The little sprout felt warmer than before – but then, Syril had been full of hot-storming flight heat the last time he had touched the boy. There was nothing to say that all creatures heated themselves the same way dragonkind did, starting in the chest and pouring outward. Maybe hair-growing kinds had found another way of going about it; for all Syril knew, an aemet's skin temperature wasn't worth a half-rotten whit.</p><p>Much as Syril's sensibilities scolded him about it, he took a drying cloth off the boy's head and hurried to a wash basin like a thief. He only meant well, soaking and wringing the cloth, loping back before the faint mint scent even met his nose. He wasn't about to make a habit of meddling in trades he knew precious little about.</p><p>Syril spread cloth back over the boy's skin. His breathing carried on, even and husk-edged. If only this little fellow were able to say a few words, he might have shared his name.</p><p>“Carry on, all right, friend?” Syril's whisper sounded too bird-loud in his ears. Not the sort of voice that belonged at a child's bedside at all. “We haven't properly introduced ourselves to each other, so be sure to remind me, if you would?”</p><p>No answer but the rise and fall of that narrow chest. Syril got to his feet, time escaping through his tight-curled fingers. He would have to flap like a scalded pigeon to reach Opens before nightfall, and gods help poor Fenwater if they needed what Syril had tied to his waistband right now.</p><p>The traded moment was worthwhile, Syril managed to agree with himself. Knowing that the boy lived was a sensation he might call a comfort.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fenwater needed less and less every time Tillian checked. The last portion of pigeon broth sat to one side of the cooking coals, a wrinkled skin covering its surface. Tea herbs sat in neat piles, looking a little more wilted each time Tillian didn't brew any. All Fenwater needed was nuts and stale pan bread for ferrinkind to hurry into their mouths. The morning trudged on, and Rose trudged with it.</p><p>“I can heal some folk, Rose,” Tillian asked. “There's a whole stone left.”</p><p>A wet creak escaped Rose's throat. It was too small to carry words, and she shook her head instead.</p><p>Breeli paused on her way past, bitten-back admonishments twisting her face. With a glance at Tillian, she carried on. It was hard, not knowing what to say.</p><p>“Please?” Tillian looked back to Rose, meeting her gaze as much as Rose's distant eyes could manage. “I could heal every third person, maybe? Not all of them.”</p><p>Rose made another effort to speak, more thick-grating sound but this time it built momentum. <span class="u">Do what I can</span>, she said. <span class="u">Won't last much longer.</span></p><p>Electricity shivered down Tillian's back – soon, there would be one casting stone and a room full of desperate sounds to use it on. Beyond the walls, Fenwater treetops rattled in the wind like the staggered beats of a thousand feathered wings. Tillian wanted real wingbeats, the type to feel elated while hearing.</p><p>“You could lean on me,” Tillian said, “if it would help? Or I could get Fahras?”</p><p>Rose mumbled thanks. No ferrin had ever been large enough to properly brace up an aemet; that awareness hung in the air as Rose lurched to another bed and Tillian followed her. Her plantcasting smelled bitter now, tough spinach and brittle vines and a spirit wringing out its last drops.</p><p>“Do you think you could swallow anything?” Time spread out as Tillian thought about Rose's condition: little food, no sleep, only so much one person had give–</p><p>See to Clover?</p><p>Protests jammed in Tillian's throat. She held her ears level as she nodded.</p><p>Clover fared much better than the rest of her village. She had needed plantcasting exactly once, hours ago, and she had laid as calm as rest since then. All she did was twitch whenever Tillian's arm fur brushed her antenna. Tillian refreshed her cloths, arranged the bedclothes and wondered about the steam; maybe Clover would be struggling if there weren't water and mint and salt lacing the air. Which there was, but the air didn't taste as damp as before. Look after it, Tillian's instincts said as she went to the hearth. She had to use every skill Peregrine left her here with.</p><p>She looked inside the steam basin and didn't truly see how high the water line sat, or how spent the mint leaves were. A sound snatched Tillian's attention away, a soft and heavy rustling sound. It was a person falling boneless against the floor.</p><p>“Rose?” Before she could think, she was running toward the crumpled shape, her own voice a shearing sound. “Rose!”</p><p>Rose didn't answer, or stir.</p><p>Tillian sat at her side, squeezed tight with fear. She pressed a hand to Rose's forehead and found clammy heat, like the rest of Fenwater's people; raking breath touched her fur. This wasn't a mage. This was just Rose, just a friend who needed help. They had no mage anymore.</p><p>“Oh, strike it all,” Breeli hissed. She tested her strength against Rose's water-limp aemet weight. “Come on, Rose, you're going to bed.”</p><p>“I might be able to move her.” Fahras came close enough to nudge Rose's shoulder, his whiskers a quivering halo. “Or you could take her other side, maybe?”</p><p>“Yeah, it'll take more than just you, kit. Pick her up by her underarm. I'll get this side. Niro? Come help us, if you would.”</p><p>Niro was at Rose's side now, too; his tailtip brushed Tillian's side, strange and real.</p><p>“Damn me if I didn't know she'd do this,” Breeli said. “Tillian, see if you can put together a bed in that corner?”</p><p>Tillian ran, electricity crackling through her. She couldn't recall where the ground mats were hidden in this hive of other people's homes – and before she could think, she was gathering the remnants of Vilhelm's bed. He wouldn't mind that. No one could mind that, Tillian hoped. She watched her own hands smoothing blankets to make a fresher bed – the sound of shoes scraping dirt sent more sparks down her back.</p><p>The four of them arranged Rose's limbs, unlaced her shoes, cooled her forehead, lifted her tunic to show a patch of green-pale skin and cover it up again with a wet cloth. Then there was quiet. One fragile moment where Fahras squirmed and Niro nudged Breeli, and the kits drifted closer, staring.</p><p>“Gods,” Breeli said, “she'd cut out her heart and give it away.”</p><p>Niro folded his ears, his nose working above Rose's arm. “Not enough casting inside her.”</p><p>The word <span class="u">drain</span> swam through Tillian's head, reminding her of years past when people worried about the hard-working new mage, Maythwind. She didn't know the details of being drained, only the broad truth – that living things needed casting inside them as simply as they needed blood. And Rose had been pouring herself out for days.</p><p>“The demon has her,” Tillian said. Guilt coated her mouth and saddled her heart. “She didn't want anyone to know.”</p><p>“Well, that's plain as day,” Breeli spat. “Who was she trying to fool? Herself?”</p><p>Kerester Keelas edged closer to his mother, eyes nailed to Rose's still form. “Is she dying?”</p><p>“She's not <span class="u">dying</span>, she fought off the demon once before. The damned craven thing won't really fight anyone a second time, but it'll bother them just because it can. She's– She's tired, that's all.”</p><p>Fahras slipped away. He caught Tillian's eyes as he passed, one shared sliver of hope and hurt.</p><p>“We just have to look after her,” Breeli went on, rubbing her eyes too hard. “Rose is grown from the same crop as all these other folk we're taking care of. And when the plantcasting runs out, well, it runs out. Sometimes nobody can help these things.”</p><p>She touched Niro and her gathered kits – bleakness setting her mouth, her hands hesitating – and then she lolloped away. Breeli was right. There was no time to sit and worry, not when they had more to do than ever.</p><p>“Rose promised Peregrine she'd let us help,” Tillian heard herself say. “She never said how much.”</p><p>A blue smile flickered on Niro. He turned back to his duties, the kits following in his wake.</p><p>If only they had been strong enough to pry the responsibility out of Rose's hands. If only they knew more – how to cast and heal and save people – but they hadn't been schooled enough. And thinking like that, thinking hopeless toward the sky, made Tillian wish for Peregrine. Not Peregrine's taught ways, but Peregrine – his sharp tongue and strong hands and all the arcane things he knew about life. His tensing shoulders and hands that knew exactly how to support Tillian's weight. He said he would come back. He said so.</p><p>Tillian believed that, but she was chalky inside as she turned away from Rose, an emptiness she couldn't remember feeling before. If Peregrine were standing in these footprints, he would focus his strengths and do everything as competent as he could. That was the lesson Tillian supposed she needed. She was one small person among others, and she needed to try her best, like always.</p><p>Bundles of cloths soaked and changed places, spread over still-feverish skins. Squeaking broke through the air; Rose kept laying there slack and green-flushed; Tillian tapped into the last healing stone.</p><p>“How much is there left,” Fahras asked under his breath.</p><p>“I can heal four more people with this, I think. If I'm careful.”</p><p>More than four aemets would need mage help. Fahras fiddled the handle of his water pail between his palms.</p><p>“I'll try to plantcast,” he said. “Next time one of the Irvings needs help.”</p><p>“Really?” Tillian couldn't help the droop of her ears.</p><p>Hurt washed over Fahras like chill wind, quivering on his whiskers. “Well, it might not work,” he said, “but I owe it to them to try. Plantcasting only goes out through hands, right?”</p><p>So many snippets of knowledge to put together. Tillian paused, picking her words careful. “I don't think it matters where the casting comes out from inside you ... It's just easier to use your hands, to put the casting close to where it's going.”</p><p>Fahras nodded. “It's a gentle casting, so it wants to help things grow. The Irvings put it right into the plants they want to help.”</p><p>That sounded like the simplest form of plantcasting, the wholesome encouragement that made stalks lengthen right before a person's eyes. Tillian remembered Skyfield aemets using plantcasting to coax more herb leaves out of their front-door gardens, or ripen brambleberries under their fingers – that form of skill smelled like prairie dust and warm corn husks, like the whole land muddled together instead of just a clean essence of growth. Those Skyfiend neighbours would have been focused on the plants and wishing them well, just like Rose wished well when she healed someone. The two types of plantcasting had split-path ways of reaching a same goal.</p><p>“Why don't you try it on Cliffton,” Tillian said. “His throat is sounding a little rough. Actually, I think he'd like you there, anyway.”</p><p>Fahras smiled grateful. They went to the Irving brothers' beds, checked cloths with quick-laid hands, and then sat beside Cliffton and his even, dragging breath.</p><p>“I don't know how to plantcast,” Tillian apologized. “I just channel the casting out of the stones.”</p><p>“That's all right. Everybody has to start somewhere, I guess.” Fahras shuffled closer, placing his spread hands on Cliffton's throat: he looked young like that, focusing on his own deliberate movements, sitting there straight-backed and ready to try.</p><p>“Plantcasting wants to help things. The healing form of it wants to get into another person and take the poison out of them, it'll sort of ... wash out of you and dig its roots in.”</p><p>It didn't sound like sense to Tillian, not in words. But Fahras hummed agreement.</p><p>“And it smells like spinach?”</p><p>“Mostly, yes. It's more tangy, though, like mint. And like the little leaves on saplings.”</p><p>“All right, I'll try.” Electricasting scented the air around Fahras, the razor-sky smell of getting ready for something. “Please tell me if you need anything.”</p><p>Tillian wished him all the luck the land could spare, holding the feeling low in her chest. She left to see to the hearth. The wood pile was reduced to jumbled twigs and cornstalks now, but the herbed steam still had to flow.</p><p>Plantcasting went to Belladonna, the woman who looked like a dry stick inside her bedding. Plantcasting went to two more folk whose names Tillian could hardly remember, her thoughts gripped tight by the amount of strength she left to use. Only a pinpoint spark remained in the casting stone when Fahras came to Tillian; he moved weary like everything, everything was his fault.</p><p>“I should have gotten lessons. It's not coming for me, and Cliffton– He–”</p><p>“I'll see to him,” Tillian said. “I think I've got enough casting here.”</p><p>“Hold on, kit,” Breeli called over a bed. “Would we be best to use that casting on Rose, help get her up and acting? Niro, what do you think?”</p><p>Niro stood at Rose's bedside, tall on his haunches – he shook his head. “She is breathing good. She has to sleep.”</p><p>“Nothing we can do, huh?” Breeli sighed, straightening a cloth between a friend's antennae. “Figures. Help Cliffton if he needs it, Tillian. We'll just do what we know.”</p><p>Tillian followed Fahras toward Cliffton's labouring, squeaking sounds, and she guided healing roots into his throat. Diving away into sick-weak flesh, the casting stopped, fading along with the struggling sound. Tillian opened her eyes and she held an uncharged quartz stone, as plain as the earth made it.</p><p>“I'll keep trying,” Fahras said.</p><p>Tillian couldn't find a thing to tell him. They were just stumbling along, meaning well. She left Fahras huddled to his still, quiet brother; they seemed too close together to disturb, smelling electric in the mint-wet air.</p><p>Even if Tillian couldn't use casting stones anymore, she could help in other ways. Tend the hearth while Fahras taught himself to cast, or change wet cloths so someone else could sleep. She could listen, even though it was a useless action now; Tillian could hear trouble signs and wish again that she had a solution. Earferrin were useless without a partner to guide.</p><p>Which meant that Tillian Sri, call her Tillian, was not an earferrin. She was something else right now – an aide, a nurse, maybe a new mageling just learning the degrees of casting. Whatever she was, Fahras and Breeli and Niro and the kits were being it right alongside her.</p><p>She went to Rose's bedside – Breeli and Niro sat there, speaking as low as earth.</p><p>“Grass would help her,” Niro said.</p><p>“Dear heart,” Breeli sighed, “plants can't help us out of this mud pit. We need casters. Mages.”</p><p>“No.” Niro waved his hands like ideas swarmed around his head. “I mean grass for her inside casting. To ... to give it stronger.”</p><p>“Oh. Managrass, I think that's the name?”</p><p>Niro drew shapes with his hands: a stalk; thin leaves; a long plume of a flower.</p><p>“Yeah, that's the one,” Breeli said. “Managrass. Go get a few stalks if you want, we can look after things here. I just don't know if Rose'll wake up in time for managrass to make a real difference.”</p><p>Tillian shuffled closer. “We could wake her up, couldn't we?” Suggesting it felt as unkind as actually doing it.</p><p>“Luck help you with that one, kit. They sleep deeper at the end of this trial, something about getting rid of the demon's poison.” A smile crept delirious onto Breeli. She rubbed her face, ruffling its fur. “This is the hardest part of the whole damned nut, right here at the end. 'Cause we're all worn down to nothing and these aemets need every bit we don't have to give. It was like this the last time, too. Just do what you can. If you can't do anything, well ... That's how it goes.”</p><p>Tillian couldn't do a thing but nod and feel her head move, a flag loose on its stick. The bristling grief left Breeli's fur, as she patted Tillian firm on the shoulder and moved on to the next bed.</p><p>Wanting her hands to move, Tillian set about freshening the steaming water, mixing fresh water and mint leaves until white granules of salt disappeared between them. Niro left the house, headed for the marshes; his family carried on changing cloths, always more cloths in the rasping quiet. And the air around Fahras took on a storm-smell, lightning and wood and fear.</p><p>Hours seeped onward. A handful of folk settled in their sleep: their fevers broke, and they sighed and relaxed, breathing as slow as footsteps on a river bottom. The rest rasped louder, two dozen people's distress building in the air. Tillian ought to have healed them, every one. She crept instead into Clover's arms. From the way Clover whimpered, it seemed like any kind touch would help, from any untrained friend at all.</p><p>Fevers twisted the mind and made the land around a person feel too heavy, so fever nightmares had to be the worst kind of dream. Tillian couldn't remember ever having one and felt queasily glad. She curled close to the child. A hand smeared down Tillian's back and Clover mumbled something about <span class="u">ferrinkind</span>, maybe guessing that she was part of a makeshift nest right now.</p><p>Tillian was a bundle of heartbeat, wreathed in a different-tempoed heartbeat, knowing the scent of tart sweat and frayed cotton while breathing rasped all around them. She lifted her ears higher, searching for anything else to listen to.</p><p>“Checked them all, kit?”</p><p>“Uh-huh. Everyone's got wet cloths on them.” Chiboko Bochi's thin voice. “That man in the corner was talking to himself.”</p><p>“Yeah? Good that he can get words out, at any pace. What was he saying?”</p><p>“Something about a plant, I think. He said, <span class="u">Life had just begun to dig roots into the land.</span>”</p><p>Breeli huffed warm. “He's telling stories to keep himself company. That legend's older than dirt, all the Fenwater folk tell it the same. Have I told you about Tu wandering the land?”</p><p>“Maybe?” A pause, where Chiboko Bochi must have folded his ears and wondered. “He lived right after the Greatbloom sprouted, right? Is there more story than that?”</p><p>“What sort of flea-bitten mother am I if I don't tell you about Tu! All right, get me another pile of linens and I'll tell you a legend. I've heard this one forty times over so I'd better share it.”</p><p>Ragged quiet. Chiboko Bochi's paws scratched over the floor, forth and back again; Tillian swivelled her ears to be ready for Breeli's voice.</p><p>“Fine. So. When the land was young, the Greatbloom's seeds had only just sprouted, and life had just begun to dig roots into the land. The gods picked their child races and shared their casting strength with them, all the shining colours of natural elements and what-have-you. After that, people started spreading out across the earth and sky to find their homes. In those first times, there was a man-fellow called Tu.”</p><p>“What kind was he?”</p><p>“Nobody remembers.”</p><p>Everylegends tasted unsettling – a person's kind didn't matter, but it mattered in the details of how they moved and spoke and thought. Tillian tried to imagine Tu and found him a pale shadow.</p><p>“But whatever he was, Tu didn't have a trade to fill his time. He sat with his family and didn't have any efforts or news to talk about. The whole land spread away around him – perfectly wonderful land, not a speck of Cold in sight – and he knew he needed to go search for what he needed.”</p><p>“He just knew?”</p><p>“Well, he'd go all sorts of stir crazy if he just sat! Like you kits when you haven't climbed a tree lately.” Maybe Breeli nudged her son, or patted his fur. “So Tu began to wander. He searched between every blade of grass, under every leaf and rock. He stared down into the water and he looked from the top of every mountain.”</p><p>“He must've been korvi,” Chiboko Bochi said, child-sure, “if he was looking from the tops of mountains.”</p><p>“That's what I thought. But I guess he could've been another kind and still walked up there. It's not like the good twit had anything else to do with his time. Anypace, the gods started their wandering, too. Verdana and Fyrian, Ambri and Okeos, they began wandering everyplace to watch over their childen. But Tu didn't meet those gods. No, he wandered and wandered until he found Bright and Dark themselves, the shining High Ones.”</p><p>Tillian imagined those highest gods as threads, as endless strands of yellow-purple light binding the land together. Bright and Dark couldn't be shaped like creatures and still hold so much in their grasp – nothing had that many arms.</p><p>Clover sighed. Her pulse beat calmer now, her breath washing even past Tillian's whiskers.</p><p>“Tu asked the High Ones what he was supposed to search for. He'd seen everything there was to see, all the rocks and trees and water. He asked if there was anything left in the land to bother with.”</p><p>“He must have been looking for a really long time.”</p><p>“Oh, he spent some good years on it, bet a nut. But Bright and Dark shone on him, and they said–”</p><p>Breeli paused. She must have worn a glorious expression for this moment, all knowing smirk and quirked ears.</p><p>“–that Tu he was looking so hard, he'd gone blind. All the land was passing by around him, and he could learn everything there was to know if he just opened his eyes. It sounded like terrible advice to Tu, after tromping all over hill and field, so he threw up his hands and turned back. He retraced his path through the grass and leaves and mountains and whatever else, back to his family. And after they met him at the door with love and hot tea, they asked him what he'd learned.”</p><p>Tillian slipped free of Clover. She pulled the blankets back into place, meagre replacement for a friend's body heat.</p><p>“And Tu didn't know what to say.”</p><p>“Even after he saw all that?”</p><p>“He didn't have a banished clue! But he had to tell his family something, so he started talking about the grass, and the leaves, and the rock, and the water, and the mountains. All the creatures he'd seen running and flying and splashing about, too. Before the fellow knew it, he was telling stories. People listened, and soon they knew his journey like they'd taken every step of it themselves. They went back to their work afterward and wouldn't you know it, but they were looking at the land with new eyes.” Breeli paused. “Listening with new ears, too, I'll bet.”</p><p>The two of them looked calmer than Tillian expected, Breeli shuffling along on the rolling momentum of the story, Chiboko Bochi watching over his stack of linens. The fond old story lit them peaceful, here in a sick house with their fur ungroomed.</p><p>“Tu thought he was best off travelling. He went wandering again. But he went to towns this time and spent his days standing in the streets, telling stories. It caught on, and that's why we have bards to learn tales from.”</p><p>Chirping a light note, Chiboko Bochi hurried to follow her. “He had to be korvi, then! He was a bard.”</p><p>“Ehh, you see ferrin and aemets out telling tales sometimes, in big towns. The wandering bug doesn't just bite dragonkind.” Breeli's ears twitched and her tail curled; she didn't know which expression to wear. “What was my point? Right. When somebody tells a legend, the legend affects them, too. Like Rose. She goes quiet after every handful of words. Legends are meant to make the storyteller think as much as the listener. Remember that. Watch how folk are saying things at the same time you're listening.”</p><p>Chiboko Bochi nodded. “Like how you think that story's really dumb even though it has a good meaning. Right?”</p><p>“That's my kit. Here, put that stuff down and help me with the pillowcloth.”</p><p>Notice the details – that was a good lesson for everyone. Tillian turned her hearing away, back to the breathing all around her, back to which people needed minding.</p><p>She hoped to notice something useful, some telling detail in all the tumult. But there was nothing new to hear. Twelve people sounded especially bad now; their throats made a high and quavering sound. Maybe, Tillian thought as she tasted the wet air, it was only ferrin who could be fully saved with the mint steam. If it was used in any revered aemet traditions, Tillian had never heard about it. For all she knew, aemets might need a whole meal of mint for it to do any good.</p><p>She went out into the shaded street, to listen to the forest leaves while she chewed and swallowed a chestnut. She turned the copper pendant around and around on its cord. New-cut leather resisted the movement, finely burred each time she moved the bead to one side or the other. The movement felt pointless, but soothing.</p><p>And then an air-thin recognition pulled at Tillian, a gaze resting on her back – she turned to see Breeli in the doorway, leaning on the pole frame.</p><p>“Malva's gone.”</p><p>It took a moment to grasp. Malva was that woman a little older than Rose, the one who slept steady and calm-faced. She had passed away in an unwatched moment.</p><p>“I didn't hear her squeaking–”</p><p>“Sounded to me like she was breathing,” Breeli said. “It must've been the fever. I don't know, Tillian, sometimes there's no telling how the sneaky beast did it. Let's just get her sent off. Have you seen Fahras?”</p><p>He was slinking off for more water, last Tillian saw him. His scent had a scant edge of green to it, under his natural ozone.</p><p>“No,” Breeli said suddenly, rubbing her ears back. “Malva's a slip of a thing, we can do it with just the two of us and Niro. Might as well leave Fahras watching the kits.”</p><p>“He's almost got the hang of plantcasting, I think.”</p><p>“Nobody plant heals right off the top. Even aemets can't just pluck the stuff out of themselves on their first sally-forth.”</p><p>“I know.” Sadness sank through Tillian; she wished it wasn't true.</p><p>Breeli turned, her tail brush dragging on the sand, and said, “Bless him for trying. Come on, kit, let's get this done.”</p><p>“Which flower is today?”</p><p>“Raspberry. I think. Ambri help me, I don't know, just pick something nice.”</p><p>Breeli and Niro found a bowl-hollow spot in the rocky plains, and scratched up enough wilted grass for cover. White raspberry flowers looked right in Malva's hands, or right enough, at least.</p><p>“Great ones watch our friend, Malva Folland,” Breeli said. She leaned on Niro, looking at the grass heap like it hid answers. “She weathered it more gracefully than anybody else could wish for. Hope she gets some rest, she's earned it.”</p><p>Tillian had nothing to say about this person, either. She watched the sky the entire way back, the clouds crawling eastward on a nipping wind.</p><p>As the sick house came into view, a young figure tottered out toward them – Chiboko Bochi with a weight in his arms.</p><p>“Kit?” Breeli ran to him. “What is it?”</p><p>“Rose said this is a plant stone.” He hefted the chunk of quartz higher, staring a dozen questions at once.</p><p>Slumping, Breeli rubbed her face. “She woke up?”</p><p>“Only for a bit. Fahras had her drink some sweet tea. And Rolara Riora brought a stone 'cause Rose asked her to, and she was tired after she used it. So she's asleep again.”</p><p>“Tired because she charged a stone when she didn't even have the strength to stand up,” Breeli muttered. “<span class="u">Strike</span> it all. No, not you, kit. It's nothing you did.”</p><p>“The managrass,” Niro said, nudging Breeli. “I found a lot.”</p><p>“We could make tea out of it, couldn't we? Sounds like she can swallow.”</p><p>Niro wilted. “It needs–” He mimed chewing, forcing his teeth through imaginary fibres.</p><p>“Right. Crushing and steeping it does the same thing, I'd wager. Give me some of the seed, I'll give Rose's mortar and pestle a try. It'll be easier to get Rose back with us if we can pour some good down her throat.”</p><p>They hurried away, under the door curtain. Tillian was suddenly alone in front of Chiboko Bochi – and he was still holding up the stone, his arms shaking.</p><p>“You can use this, right?”</p><p>It was a quartz crystal splotched with feldspar on one side, its facets shining with caught daylight. Green strength winked in the center. Tillian could imagine Rose's grip on the stone, her fingers pressed grey, squeezing her plant casting until it strangled.</p><p>Taking the stone, Tillian hugged against her chest. “I'll make good use of it.”</p><p>“People's breathing sounds bad.” Chiboko Bochi stared at her, fidgeting, as sad as if he was soaking wet. “Please fix it?”</p><p>She would, Tillian thought as she ran inside three-legged. She could fix things when she had a healing stone, because she at least had a chance to try. The stone gave a faint, bitter scent of leaves, just like Rose's fingers had; Tillian carried a stick of strength meant to shore up a village.</p><p>She found Fahras crouched over a squeaking, gasping neighbour, bent wretched as he dug for a casting he didn't have. Tillian put quartz to aemet skin and healed the sound away for him. The air around them stank like electricity, like panic sizzling plants away to nothing.</p><p>Fahras murmured thanks. There was only a weak tendril of Rose's plantcasting left to force back into the stone; it glowed in Tillian's hands as she looked across the rasping fields of everyone.</p><p>The sounds peaked, later that hour. One villager squeaked, then another, and Tillian knew in one amber-clear moment that they were beginning to die.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peregrine needed to hurry his pace. Finding a meal of roasted corn in Opens had taken moments longer than he'd hoped for; the daylight was a well-advanced mustard colour, and Fenwater was still a speck in the tree-ragged distance. He fanned more firecasting, warming a fraction of the ache out of his wings. Inside the carrying pouch, Wellis and Keevi shifted, tugging the pouch strap by fractions.</p><p>Wellis murmured.</p><p>“You should take a break, he says,” Keevi shrilled over the wind. “It's true!”</p><p>“There'll be time to rest once the work is done,” Peregrine said. “Now, when was the last time you two used stones?”</p><p>Low chatter between them. Then Keevi replied, “Two weeks, or a year, depending on what kind of casting you mean.”</p><p>“Any kind. Learning to use one kind of casting stone means you have the whole of them half learned.”</p><p>More chatter. “Well, Giala's been showing us how to use fire stones, to help her when she makes a really big clay piece. And we remember your light stone lessons.”</p><p>There was no plantcasting in these Redessence ferrin but their hands would be of use to Tillian – if Peregrine flew them there soon enough to matter. He stared into the wind. Thought yanked his mouth to frowning.</p><p>“I can't guess how much time there'll be to instruct you, once we arrive. Those aemet folk must be terribly ill by now, some have surely already passed. We'll ask Rose or Tillian for directions. Whichever of them seems more sure of what's happening.”</p><p>And how was the child-mage faring, among her own dying kind? Ache tightened on Peregrine's heart each time he thought about it. However intently Rose was playing her role, she didn't know enough and she had no one to learn answers from. Peregrine would end up looking to Tillian for cues, he knew as sure as brick. He would deliver this pouch full of friends to Fenwater, then bend his own back to whatever task Tillian pointed him toward – gods, he had let his clever friends go to waste all these years.</p><p>Keevi tapped his chest, whiskers prickling as she craned upward. “Tillian would make you rest, wouldn't she?”</p><p>Wellis murmured.</p><p>“Yes, you should rest, we've been in the air a while. Do you think we're halfway to Fenwater yet?”</p><p>They had come more than halfway, to be truthful. Peregrine could see blazing-white cotton bolls on Fenwater bushes, and the glimmering suggestion of marsh water between trees.</p><p>“We'll rest for a moment,” he said. “Any longer and my wings will harden.”</p><p>He spiralled down to the rock and shaggy moss. Landing came easily now, a habit-smooth flourish of his feet against spongy turf; his body remembered what to do.</p><p>“Mmm,” he told himself. His ankles didn't sting. Old dogs, it seemed, couldn't forget the tricks that mattered.</p><p>He let the ferrin out of their pouch. Keevi hardly touched earth before asking for his water pouch – surely the water inside was too stale for her tastes, pent up in old leather until it tasted of dust. Watching Keevi bounce away over the grass-tufted rock, Peregrine didn't recall the exact location of the nearest creek, but enough liquid surfaces flashed in his memory that he couldn't garner much worry.</p><p>Wellis faced Peregrine, sarong bunched crooked around him from the flight. He smiled equally crooked, perhaps recalling how to converse with the deaf.</p><p>“So, you like your new job?” He forced his voice to an alto pitch; mouth movements filled in the gaps.</p><p>Peregrine harrumphed. “One gripthia strike hardly distinguishes me as a messenger. I'm only doing what's needed at this moment.”</p><p>“Yes, but you're still flying errands.”</p><p>Half-truths were never good enough, it seemed. Peregrine knelt, his knees and tail forming a sure-legged stool. The gem pouches touched ground so their weight disappeared, and his wings clamoured relief at being folded and left still.</p><p>“I suppose I'm three-quarters a messenger, then.”Wellis smiled, ears splayed. “You should have taught me more earferrin tricks. I'd be better at this.”</p><p>He had considered something like that, back when he couldn't stop staring at Zitan's children nestled in his lap, their wire-thin fingers curled with sleep. Peregrine could have trained two or three from each litter and rotated the earferrin role among them. But would Peregrine himself have been content with a life like that – spending one day out of three on his work, wondering how to use the rest of his time? No, he had thought with fire, no. Pick one kit and give them a calling to last a lifetime. Give them a duty. It had seemed clear as air back then, naive as Peregrine was.</p><p>Zitan had a sharp jay's voice, distinct enough for a young miner's purposes. But Peregrine's hearing had weakened in each passing year. Male voices melded gradual with his ear din. Perhaps eighty years ago, Peregrine would have taught Wellis to be an earferrin instead of his sister, but he remembered that particular choice like he made it days ago: Tillian's bell-clear voice had made him sure. As though the only druthers that mattered were his.</p><p>Peregrine looked away from Wellis and his familiar grey shade of fur. “There's nothing more to do than what you're already doing.” He checked the pouch knots studding his waistband, tugging them just to move his hands. “If everyone shaped their words as you are, I wouldn't have a mote of trouble.”</p><p>He simply needed to teach everyone he met. The tactic worked for wise mages and eager children – it even worked for chattering fools like Syril. Peregrine could teach the whole land until he himself learned, if his strength held.</p><p>“There's no sense fretting about that, either,” Wellis said. “Because you're doing as much as you can, and so's everyone else. Think about Tillian. She's going to be happy to see you.”</p><p>By all things dear, telling Peregrine to think of Tillian was like telling a river to think of dampness. But the point held true. Peregrine left the knots alone; if Tillian could peer over his shoulder now, she would have asked him to do something he couldn't place – focus on his goal, maybe. At the very least, pushing toward a goal would be the Ruelle thing to do.</p><p>After long-gnawing moment later, Keevi returned. Peregrine accepted a drink of cool water and rose: he couldn't sit in that field any more, not as long as fire smouldered inside him and premonition held him in a tight fist. He gathered his family into the companion pouch and clambered back into the air, flapping so the green textures of Fenwater sped closer. A tailwind joined him, billowing under his wings. Peregrine couldn't recall the last time he flew this way, as gale-swift as the rest of the korvi race; the air dug at his eyes and it was an inexplicable joy.</p><p>He landed in the dusty Fenwater street – his body shook, full of its own scalding pulse.</p><p>“It's that large house up ahead,” Peregrine said, hoarse with smoke. Wellis and Keevi were already squirming free of pouch cloth. “What do you hear?”</p><p>“Nothing strange.” Keevi looked up at him, questioning.</p><p>“Trees,” Wellis blurted, “And, uhh, the grass behind us.”</p><p>The breeze turned. Mint touched the air, followed by dampness; memory burned cool down Peregrine's spine. He would never forget the scent of curative steam. Not until he stopped breathing, too.</p><p><span class="u">It's quieter than before</span>, Tillian told him. <span class="u">It sounds like need.</span></p><p>“There are eights of people in there.” Peregrine headed into the shade, toward the large bulk of the sick house. “There's got to be some sound from it, anything!”</p><p>Murmuring passed between Wellis and Keevi, an undercurrent in the ear din. Peregrine stopped listening. He knew already what the folk in that house needed: a messenger arriving to them with help, gems and skilled hands. Luck grant it, Peregrine might not be too late. He pushed himself to run, pouches hammering his thighs with each stride, and threw back the sick house door curtain.</p><p>Tillian scrambled to a stop. She blinked up at him, one ferrin sitting alone, relief wet in her eyes.</p><p>“Peregrine.”</p><p>He ought to have answered – told her he missed her, asked what she needed so he could fetch some. Tillian turned, beckoning, bolting away.</p><p>“Hurry, please! You brought stones, right?”</p><p>Her panic-edged voice cut Peregrine free of his thoughts. The air was drowned with steam and he couldn't follow Tillian quick enough into the paths between beds. Wellis and Keevi brushed present at his ankles.</p><p>“We have plenty, all plantcasting,” Peregrine said, clawing a pouch knot open. “Where?”</p><p>Tillian ran to another ferrin – the large fellow, the one sitting bowed over an aemet and shaking like grief. “Fahras? Fahras, stop, he'll do it.” She darted toward Peregrine and didn't wait for him to kneel fully; she leap-scrabbled onto his shoulder with a sting of nails. “Hurry, take a stone and I'll show you how.”</p><p>Tillian shivered against his neck; it carried along Peregrine's every nerve, tightening his fingers steely around a healing stone.</p><p>“Shouldn't you–” He bit the thought off. If Tillian wanted his action, she would have it. “Wellis, Keevi. Pay attention.”</p><p>They clustered close by Peregrine's flanks and Call Him Fahras stepped back to make way. The group of them looked upon a spasming aemet, a young man with lips tinged umber grey – the colour of smothering.</p><p>“Cliffton can't breathe, there's too much toxin in him,” Tillian said, fast and clear and shaking, “Hold the stone to his throat, and start it like a light stone. The casting will try to come toward you at first, just don't let it. Think about where you want it to go.”</p><p>Peregrine blew his firecasting, a smoky flare overthe stone. The plantcasting hackled, a green-thorned animal shrinking away from his heat and claws.</p><p>“Not the same as your electricasting,” he muttered. “Hold on.” He leaned forward – Tillian shifted like his own tendons – to put the stone at the aemet's throat and his own snout beside it. This was no simple light stone. This was a different skill entirely and Peregrine wasn't a healer, he wasn't a mage. Fire was all he knew and if the plantcasting wanted to run from that, then fine, he would give chase. He snatched a deep breath and blew.</p><p>“Focus on the poison in his body. Plantcasting wants to get rid of poison, just make it go to his throat and it'll know what to do.”</p><p>The casting prickled everywhere Peregrine touched it, coiling away from his washing-hot breath. It was like working tools toward a buried vein, he supposed, distant in his own skin. Think of the destination. Imagine the shape of the goal; ignore the trifles; press onward. Peregrine sank into the hot glow of casting, the smoke and embers and moving, magic shapes. Somewhere beyond him, the plantcasting latched in. Worry drained.</p><p>“That's it,” Tillian breathed. She butted fervent against his neck. “Thank you, oh, if you weren't here– He sounds better now. Start calling the plantcasting back, it'll take a moment and the healing will be done by the time you're done.”</p><p>There were no words he could state to make plantcasting obey him. Peregrine shifted on his knees, moving his nose so his breath lapped on the aemet's throat. Another burned-frantic recoil, and then the casting yielded, slipping away and back into its stone.</p><p>“Do you know how to hold it inside the stone?”</p><p>“If it's like any other casting.” Hold any casting charge in place long enough, and it would resign itself to staying put. Peregrine angled his breath downward, washing around the stone on all sides – a cage.</p><p>Fahras spoke; the low pitch evaded Peregrine but left a wake of fear.</p><p>Tillian leaped, brushing fur against his knee, leaving only air to touch his shoulder. Alone again. Peregrine held tight to his focus, waiting until the plantcasting stilled inside its gem facets. He opened his eyes to find Tillian rigid with concentration, her ear held wide over the aemet's face. Gods help them if only a true mage could cast this correctly. Fear spilled nauseous through Peregrine as he thought that his magic subtleties may have gone wrong, as he remembered brightcasting refusing his guidance that first time he tried.</p><p>“Breeli,” Tillian called, her eyes darting in the middle distance. “He's breathing, but it's weak. What should we do?”</p><p>Sitting up straight amid the beds, Breeli frowned. “He's– Oh! They're like that after a near miss. Fan him, wave a cloth or something near his antennae. The moving air helps.”</p><p><span class="u">I can–</span> Fahras picked up the rag from his friend's forehead and fanned, his hands clumsy and whiskers trembling.</p><p>Tillian watched the effort. Then her eyes caught Peregrine's, and ripped away to land on Wellis and Keevi. “You can heal with a stone, can't you? Please help the others.”</p><p>Both ferrin chirped. They dug into Peregrine's pouch, clacking stones together, and shot away to different bedsides.</p><p>Tillian was on Peregrine again; she leaped more delicately this time, with a barest graze of nails.</p><p>“Thank you.” She whispered, right here in this moment because they had no eleven steps to wait. “Please look after him, too?” She pointed to a young man beside the one just healed, a fellow with lips opened as if to gasp.</p><p>Peregrine hummed answer. He was whole for one heartbeat, one strange instant where her rapid furkind pulse and his dragon heart matched each other. Then Tillian was gone, leaping to the ground to take a stone, bolting away toward yet another ailing friend. Peregrine and Tillian were two people, still split into two bodies. They had more work to do.</p><p>He shifted to the next bedside, and bullied plantcasting energy into and out of the young aemet. His natural breathing returned, as much as back of Peregrine's hand could detect. With that done, a moment of calm sank in lopsided. Peregrine looked around at the Fenwater sick house, looking truly this time. Steam hung mint-scented over the sickbeds, over all the greying faces and ferrin flashing between them; the kitten aides looked older now that determination laid their ears back. Shame on Peregrine for leaving these folk alone. Shame on the whole land.</p><p>“Fahras?”</p><p>The voice hooked Peregrine's ear, thin and sharp – a kitten crept closer to Fahras, her ears low as she watched him flap the washcloth. “Is Cliffton going to be all right?”</p><p><span class="u">He's better now,</span> Fahras said, and mumbled some nervous hopes.</p><p>“Should we do that, too? Waving cloths?”</p><p>I– Um. Just see if Tillian or her friends need anything. I think that's best.</p><p>The kitten hurried to her task – cherishing the responsibility, at her age, any proud morsel to hold between her teeth and call her own. Fahras sat alone again, lowering the cloth to look closer at the aemet, Cliffton. Surely a friend, a loved one – for all Peregrine didn't know, he brimmed sure now.</p><p>“Fahras,” he said. “Put your ear close by his mouth. One doesn't need to be aemetkind to feel air movement.”</p><p>Fahras obeyed, quick as instinct. He waited, the act of appraisal wrapped tight around him; downy hairs inside his ear stirred on someone else's exhaled breath.</p><p>
  <span class="u">He ... He sounds better.</span>
</p><p>“As long as he breathes more often than lizardkind,” Peregrine said, “he ought to manage.”</p><p><span class="u">Thank you.</span> Fahras straightened, glowing earnest. He laid a weightless hand on Cliffton's chest. <span class="u">He thanks you, too. And Arlin. That's the other fellow you healed.</span></p><p>Any decent person would have done it. But whatever Fahras had been striving at earlier, hunched over this Cliffton fellow, it had been bitterly hopeless and he knew that; he wore this gravity like a cloak.</p><p>Peregrine nodded. He looked into his pouch's depths and dug for another stone. “I only hope he's well afterward. Fahras is your name, isn't it?”</p><p><span class="u">Yes</span>, he said, and added something, perhaps his full name. Peregrine's hand landed on an ore-crusted emerald, a turnip-sized stone that this ferrin plainly had the strength to lift.</p><p>“You should know how to make use of these. I'll show you how, just point out someone who has need of it.”</p><p>Understanding sank into Fahras, carved wide on his face. He nodded, and raised his ears long enough to pick a direction to run.</p><p>After a few uncanny moments, the scurrying calmed and the worst was behind them. Ferrin moved surer among the sick, their tails wafting behind them instead of hanging low – they looked less like they had been kicked. Peregrine settled beside the fire on some pretense of tending the coals. He soaked heat into his weary bones, and let his mind run its route.</p><p>He couldn't bring himself to be surprised about Rose. Of course Rose was stricken by the same illness she tended. Of course her fledgeling heart bled for people, and so she gave away more than she could afford. If fate was kind enough, Rose would learn moderation.</p><p>Peregrine watched Rose's movement across the room – she braced herself up on a sleep-weak elbow, with Niro hurrying to help a cup to her mouth. The ferrin group had already asked Peregrine if managrass was the best-suited tonic for her. He had told them he was no mage, and suggested extra honey for nourishment – that was the majority of his aemet-nursing expertise. Gods help Rose, because Peregrine didn't know how to.</p><p>He watched mint leaves floating lax in the steaming pail. Ferrin darted constant around him, wearing precise gestures and angled ears, showing their every tone and pitch. There had to be a distinct movement to gripthia, Peregrine thought: aemets had to twitch their chests or flutter their plague-wracked throats in a way that a mine-deaf korvi could discern. But as he watched, Peregrine found himself wrong. The old woman – the skinny, breakable-looking one – made no distinct movement at all before Tillian ran to her side. She only showed a desperation in her shallow, shaking breaths and a greyness about the lips, her final, anguished signs of need. How cruel it would be to leave Peregrine watching aemets alone – they would see the white face of death before he was the wiser. Gripthia victims needed caretakers who could listen because there wasn't always a substitute for listening. Peregrine tucked that thought next to his heart, for later.</p><p>Breeli lolloped to sit beside him. Her sarong ties hung loose and half-knotted, stained where they dragged on the ground; she immediately set about retying them.</p><p>Well, you couldn't have come at a better time, good fellow.</p><p>If she would just lift her voice another octave, understanding her would be mountains easier. But it didn't matter particularly. Peregrine smirked dry. “I did say that I'd return.”</p><p><span class="u">Oh, I figured you would. It was just a year and four days to wait, that's all.</span> She paused, digging a claw into loosening sarong threads. <span class="u">Those healing stones, they're from Hotrock ... Right?</span></p><p>“No.”</p><p>Breeli's mouth tightened, her whiskers quivering. She turned a fierce stare into the fire's depths.</p><p>Nothing from Hotrock, huh? A generous helping of squat all? Well, stick it up theirs if they ever need anything.</p><p>Peregrine had wished less justifiable things. He hummed toneless. A moment crawled past the two of them; hearth coals chewed hungry at the ashes already burnt, and powder-coloured flames climbed a knot of charcoal.</p><p><span class="u">They must be busy</span>, Breeli decided. She glanced sidelong at Peregrine, furtive. <span class="u">In Hotrock. How are the other towns in the west?</span></p><p>“They'll manage. It sounds as though everyone who can be gathered has been gathered, and now there's nothing to do but bear down to work.” He waved a hand toward the steam bucket. “I can smell the salt in there. There's no point putting so much in the steam water. Any more than a spoonful goes to waste.”</p><p>Breeli splayed her ears, frowning. <span class="u">Who knew steam was so good in the first place, but I'll keep that in my head. These things have a way of making themselves useful if you hold on to 'em long enough. Oh, while we're talking about being useful. Peregrine, it'd be ripe and wonderful if you'd mind the aemet friends for a while. We ferrin are in sore need of some decent shuteye after these past days.</span></p><p>“So long as someone keen-eared stays with me.”</p><p><span class="u">Oh, that's right. You and your–</span> Breeli scratched her ear. <span class="u">Huh. You can have Rolara Riora, she had a good long nap last hour. She's the white-tipped kit over there, I'll ask her to follow your lead. And Rose was awake, last I looked. We'll make sure she doesn't need anything before we look away from her. Just keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn't get up.</span></p><p>If Rose dragged herself from her sickbed now, after everything she had pushed on through, she wouldn't have the strength to grow a dandelion. Peregrine raised a brow.</p><p><span class="u">I know</span>, Breeli said. <span class="u">She's got more heart than sense. I don't suppose you could talk some reason into her? It's worth half a try.</span></p><p>This village needed guidance and anyone with a handful of wisdom, it seemed, would do. Peregrine rose, muttering in his throat; pain stirred as his back flexed.</p><p>“I'll do what I can,” he said. “I give you no promise but that.”</p><p>“Well, I'd hardly ask for more.”</p><p>Breeli smirked up at him. Here was a ferrin wiser than her years, all fifteen or sixteen or however many potent years she had lived; she eyed Peregrine like deciding whether to grow that tall, herself.</p><p>“I hope a spoonful is enough to make do with,” Peregrine muttered. “I'll see to the fire. While I'm here.”</p><p>She patted his knee, and left.</p><p>Peregrine gathered every remaining stick outside the sick house door – the scattered bones of what had once been a woodpile – and fed the hearth coals. He returned outside with fresh water and dried corn, to find the source of the flashing movement between the near-distant houses. It was a cage of stewing pigeons just as he had supposed, flaring their wings agitated, huddling toward to their emptied troughs as Peregrine approached. They pecked wild and grateful at the food. They were forgotten creatures, Peregrine supposed; a few dozen pigeons always wanted for meals when gripthia was about. He considered cleaning the cage's underpan and he just as quickly grew tired of stalling – he had a talented child to talk reason into.</p><p>Rose was stationed in a corner bed near the heaped tea supplies. A cotton pillow wedged her off the bed: someone must have propped her up, so she could watch her villagers with glazed eyes.</p><p>“Good Peregrine.” Rose spoke quiet and thin, as though ashamed she could speak at all. She managed a smile and it looked half real. “Fenwater is glad to see you again.”</p><p>He nodded, settling to his knees. “I hoped not to find you like this.”</p><p>“It's inevitable. But I'm sure you– Pardon me.” She hooked a finger inside her mouth, and dragged out something fibrous and brown. “Apologies,” she murmured, dropping it into one of the cups at her side.</p><p>“Throat remedy?”</p><p>“It's managrass seed, to bring my casting strength. It should be ground fine and steeped into a tonic, to free its goodness from the hulls. But Niro says that wild ferrin just chew it.”</p><p>“Keevi came to us wild,” Peregrine said, nodding across the room. “She's the dark grey fellow with white tips. I suppose she's been over to see you already.”</p><p>“Oh?” Rose sat higher, a rising seedling. “Wild, and she can use stones? That's wonderful.”</p><p>“You haven't taught any of your ferrin kin to use stones? Being birthed in the forest is no reason they can't learn.”</p><p>Rose wilted back into the sheets, pressing her lips, blinking too much.</p><p>“You ought to teach them,” Peregrine said. “When you can.”</p><p>“Breeli tried to learn it, years ago. She couldn't get the knack at all. I suppose I thought ...” Another quiet chasm between them, and Rose shook her head. “I was working on my own training, these past days, as much as I could teach myself. Fenwater has few enough folk that one apt mage could manage by themselves, gods providing. If I worked hard enough, if I just acted like a Tellig daughter should ...”</p><p>Fenwater was a community small enough to feel like a family, like cousins sitting all in a circle around tree trunks. Rose must have stepped out into the street each day, looked at her neighbours and sensed their every breath of air, and imagined it to be a seed in her palm. She could care for it – bleed for it if there was no water to give – and live up to whatever stately legends her Tellig grandmothers had left behind. The title of mage seemed to bring madness with it. Madness, or else enough generosity to douse good sense.</p><p>Rose worked managrass between her back teeth as she thought. “Have you ever been drained, Peregrine? You wouldn't know how long drain lasts, would you?”</p><p>“No. I cast mostly to fly.” His words came out gruffer than he meant them – because Peregrine's body quit before his magic strength did, every damned time. He paused, thinking a step farther. “For what it's worth, I know a dancer who drained herself once.”</p><p>“A dancer? But they ...?”</p><p>“They use fire for more than just moving their dragon bodies, apparently. This dancer was working on a smoke routine. She had a particular sort of smoke in mind, thick-bodied firecasting smoke that would flow on the gusts of her wings. String, she said. She wanted it twirling like black strings around her arms.”</p><p>“Yes, I'm still chewing it,” Rose said.</p><p>Peregrine's mind stumbled. He retried the conversation in his memory, until a flash of Niro's fur caught his eye.</p><p>“Apologies, Peregrine,” Rose said. She tucked more brown-glossy seeds into her mouth. “She was working the smoke, and?”</p><p>“Fainted.”</p><p>Rose's eyes widened. “Gods help her.”</p><p>“It was her own doing, the mage said. No one can cast for hours upon hours unless they've trained to do just that. It takes years of experience.”</p><p>Peregrine never thought of himself as a storyteller. But he watched regret ripple across Rose's face, and supposed he was bard enough to make a point.</p><p>“I suppose discipline is the most important part of casting,” she said. “Was the dancer all right?”</p><p>“She rested that evening. Drank some elixer. It may have had managrass in it – I wouldn't know, the mage did the administering. She hadn't drained herself badly, so she was on her feet the next morning.”</p><p>Rose nodded, only enough to stir her antennae tips. She watched her thumbnails pick at each other. “All a person can give is their best, really. That's what I was trying to give my villagers. I wouldn't mind blacking out again, but that's not fair to the ferrin.” She paused, inhaling as though it tore inside her cloyed throat. “Thank you for being here, Peregrine. You deserve more than thanks, for what you've done for us. That goes for Tillian and your other friends, too.”</p><p>“Save your thanks. We aren't finished yet.” Ache crept down his back the longer he sat straight and unmoving. There had to be a more useful task than sitting, being thanked.</p><p>“Did she manage her routine? The dancer?”</p><p>Peregrine smirked. “She did. Not long after I partnered with her.”</p><p>“Oh! Congratulations.”</p><p>It was eighty-five years late, but bless Rose for the thought. Giala would like this girl, Peregrine supposed – he wished for the two of them to meet, sometime in the misted future.</p><p>“She simply worked a little longer and a little less hard,” he said. “The technique of it fell into place for her eventually. There's no good in dying for a trade.”</p><p>Rose looked between her hands, as though she might find answers there. “I'll tell the ferrin this, too. But I hear fewer grim throats than before. Folk who aren't fighting for their breath should be falling into deeper sleep. Some of them have already begun. I think this is nearly finished.”</p><p>It felt peculiar, the idea that besting gripthia could be so simple. Just a few moments of Redessence aid and everyone afflicted would be fine. Peregrine's memory hackled and disagreed; other mages had fussed for much longer, he seemed to recall.</p><p>“They're finished with the demon so soon?”</p><p>“This leg of the recovery, yes. It's–” Rose looked up at him suddenly, deer-eyed. “Oh, it's good that you're here. I'm told that korvi are a blessing for this part, for when aemet folk need to be moved. They'll be sleeping, deep as earth. Once the demon has been fought off, our kind need time to recover from the effect of its poison.”</p><p>Peregrine nodded. Moving an aemet's still weight couldn't be more troublesome than moving ore.</p><p>“I don't know what's going to happen to me,” Rose said. “I may need that healing sleep, as well, so I'll be sure to tell everyone what to do. You'll need to wake our aemet kin every three hours. Help them sit up and drink. Maybe mint or rosehip tea if it's at hand, but the vital part of this is giving our kin something that's mainly water. It'll wash the poison remnants from their bodies and help them wake up as themselves.”</p><p>“This sounds like the hardest and easiest part.”</p><p>“I suppose. The waiting is the real trial, I'm told.” She stared wide. “Peregrine, please. It'll need careful attention. You'll all be taking shifts for a fourday. If there there isn't time to tend to me–”</p><p>“None of that rubbish.” He stood – he could feel the shape of Rose's thoughts and it lit a fire dark inside him. “You're the Fenwater mage. This village needs you, so don't even think of slipping away.”</p><p>Hurt broke on her face. “I didn't mean–”</p><p>“Get some rest. Let your casting regrow. And when you don't need any more aid from this patch-quilt team of yours, you can take your job back. Understand?”</p><p>Her throat worked. Carefully, she said, “Yes. You're right, it's just–” A shake of her head. “No matter. I'll tell you, though, that those plantcasting stones can only help for so long. Once a friend is out of danger of their throat closing, their body needs to find its own way back to health, if it's able to. I don't know if they'll all manage, Peregrine. But I'll be there with you in the same moment I'm able.”</p><p>“You'd best do that. I'm not a mage.”</p><p>She smiled faint. She reached under her pillow and drew out a quartz crystal – a clear, flawless one fit for charging. “And take this away, if you would?”</p><p><span class="u">I suppose that's my brood's fault.</span> Breeli passed Rose's side, pausing long enough to snatch the quartz away. <span class="u">Always doing what their idiot elders tell them to.</span></p><p>“I'm sorry. If all I could do was charge a stone for you, I thought ...”</p><p>It's fine, kit. Just listen to this fellow, I think he knows what he's talking about.</p><p>Peregrine always tried to know a whit before he opened his mouth. He tested weight on his tongue, and said, “I'll leave you to your rest, Rose. Tell us if you need anything.”</p><p>As he left that bedside, Breeli's voice slipped away into the ear din, and Rose's followed. But as Peregrine thought longer, he grew sure of what he had heard – Rose making a promise the size of a crumb.</p><p>He fetched wood before anything else. Plenty of Fenwater's forest oaks had hollow branches to snap off, and the last thing Rose needed to think about was burning perfectly good house boards; folk needed homes if this village was to remain.</p><p>Peregrine arranged the hearth fire to proper order – proper for his clan's ways, at any pace, criss-crossed with hardwood in case someone wanted coals to cook with. He found himself watching Tillian. Duty held her at an aemet's bedside, her fingers pressed tense around a healing stone. Forest-coloured magic flowed through her knuckles, into throat flesh, and back up into the stone; the aemet pried open his gummy eyes and likely saw nothing at all.</p><p>When Tillian relaxed – her fur stood in quills, melting gradual into the curve of her back – Peregrine went to her.</p><p>“Do you need anything?”</p><p>“No, thank you.”</p><p>Tillian looked through him, head cocked, considering. The words Peregrine had spoken were lingering shapes on his tongue. The two of them wore new roles and tested where the seams pulled; they were merely a man and his daughter now.</p><p>“Healing these folk is simple enough, really,” Tillian explained, careful and crisp. “When we can be right there quick enough. The only real trial of it is when we can't do anything to help.”</p><p>Peregrine learned that decades ago, holding kittens while they coughed, feeling their bone rattle with the effort.</p><p>“But I guess you know that.” Tillian held her copper pendant between her nails. “Are you all right? Your wings?”</p><p>“Better.”</p><p>She held herself level, either believing Peregrine or pretending to. Humming buzzed in his memory.</p><p>“We're almost done getting everyone healed,” she said, “so you won't need to cast on anyone for a while. Do you think Rolara Riora will train well with you? I could stay up a bit longer, if you'd prefer.”</p><p>Tillian moved her tail as though it carried a burden. She stood there clutching at a trinket, wearing a stain-marked sarong, fur greasy down her back where she had neglected to groom. Perhaps she had no idea how tired she felt, intent on other people as she was.</p><p>“Rolara Riora will do fine,” Peregrine said. “She can learn, and you need your rest. Just be sure to talk to Rose before you lie down.”</p><p>“Does she need anything?”</p><p>“Just to teach you.”</p><p>Tillian nodded. She hesitated, came shuffling steps closer as Peregrine knelt for her, and laid her chin warm on his thigh.</p><p><span class="u">Not all of them made it.</span> She spoke tinier than sound, but shaped it clear. <span class="u">That's why we have the bright and dark stones. I know it's the merciful thing to do, but it's terrible to watch.</span></p><p>“That happens.” Peregrine flicked his gaze around the room and found no one gazing back: there were only sleeping folk and working folk. His hand settled on Tillian's neck. He stroked her like Kelria might have, feeling every shifting hair on this strong child.</p><p>Did you have to end it, sometimes? When one of us was too sick?</p><p>“Sometimes.”</p><p>“Plantcasting didn't help us?”</p><p>If only it did. Then mages might have offered Peregrine more than salt and mint and condolences.</p><p>“No. Salterra isn't a poisonous sickness, so plantcasting has no leverage against it. I suppose salterra creates a flaw in the body, there from birth. Anything can have a flaw. Rock, crystal, innards ...”</p><p>Tillian had Zitan's colouring and her mother's eyes; she was a small grey weight on Peregrine's knee, deep blue focused on him. He looked to the dirt.</p><p>“We piled coals under a pail of mint steam,” he said, “and held your kin close to it, sitting up. It soothed them some. Loosened the secretions inside them so the attacks passed quicker – most of the time, anypace. If they truly couldn't draw breath, all we could do was use a bright healing stone. Hated to see them in a panic like that.”</p><p>Fur flowed under his palm with each stroke down her backbone, beginning to feel like habit. Tillian's eyes slid closed.</p><p><span class="u">It's not fair</span>, she said. <span class="u">Anyone getting sick. None of it is fair.</span></p><p>“These folk are nearly out of the mire. There's no sense fretting. “</p><p><span class="u">I know</span>. She stood on her haunches and took a grounding breath. “It's just how things are.”</p><p>The sleek sensation of her fur stayed on Peregrine's skin. This land was carrying on, the same as always, full of the same love and hurt and hard work people had been wreaking on it since life first touched soil. The only change was in the details. New faces came and went. Tillian had two handfuls of years left and she might still want to spend them tending an old korvi.</p><p>She tapped Peregrine's thigh a deliberate twice, and then flicked her tail brush toward the trouble – Wellis and Keevi sitting between two beds, their backs mirrored arcs, hunkered around green-glowing stones.</p><p>“They've been there for half an hour, hardly pausing.”</p><p>As though the aemets were too weak to hold plantcasting anymore. Peregrine raised brows at Tillian. Her ears lay tired against her neck, and she nodded.</p><p>“There's only so much you can do to help someone fight the demon,” she said. “I guess that part is the same as salterra. We should go help them, shouldn't we?”</p><p>Peregrine had watched his children struggle for their breath, and now he had to watch them struggle for someone else's. He slid grip around Tillian – he had missed holding this particular warm weight to his chest – and stood. This wasn't about Fenwater. This was about doing a task so someone else wouldn't have to; this was the moral of Peregrine's life, told in wretched new words.</p><p>Rose heaved to her feet as well, and suddenly stopped, her eyes locking with Peregrine's. Sad truth arced between them. She knew the neck-tingling feel of death, too.</p><p>“Peregrine,” Rose said like a sigh, “I can help them. It's just using someone else's casting stone.”</p><p>“There's no need for a mage, then. Where do you keep the stones?”</p><p>She paused, thought tightening her lips. “I'll watch you. I should be there. Breeli, if you'd get the bright and dark stones.”</p><p>Breeli twisted her ears, muttering about <span class="u">taking it easy</span>.</p><p>“I will. Fahras, would you fetch Belladonna's walking stick for me? I don't suppose she'll mind.”</p><p>Ferrin hurried away and back. It took only a moment for the stage to set, Peregrine between the two sickbeds, a brightcasting stone caged in his fingers.</p><p>“I was having my doubts about using more plantcasting on them,” Keevi said. She stepped back from the old woman's bare throat. “It doesn't feel like it's taking.”</p><p>Wellis spoke some low advice. Whatever it was made Keevi nudge against him, sharing a scrap of comfort.</p><p>“Belladonna and Hansart,” Rose said, leaning on the walking stick, sinking to her knees. “At least they're passing together.”</p><p>The group of them looked upon a brown-aged woman, and a slender man perhaps fifteen years her junior. They might have been relatives, or friends; they might have been the inseperable variety of neighbours who shared tea and always had something to say; there were any number of roles Peregrine might guess them to be, ignorant as he was.</p><p>Rose turned weary eyes to him. “Good Peregrine, do you know how to do this?”</p><p>“Plenty well.” He knelt. “Which of them should I start with?”</p><p>No one answered. Wellis and Keevi discussed it with the angles of their ears. A wet grating sound nudged through the ear din, surely Rose clearing her throat.</p><p>“Belladonna sounds worse,” Tillian said, bell-clear and sure. She passed Peregrine to sit by the woman's head, and she laid her tail around her own feet. “She must not be getting any amount of air in, her breath sounds are so small.”</p><p>Peregrine edged close, placing the bright stone on this age-wizened aemet's throat. He didn't need to be prompted on the sound of smothering; hundreds more years could bury him and he would never forget. Firecasting rose warm in his throat.</p><p>The brightcasting obeyed Peregrine, shining out yellow and pure, soaking into sick flesh. Poison hung beyond the brightcasting's reach but the pain of suffocating – the all-consuming terror – faded out of being.</p><p>“It'll just be a moment, Belladonna,” Tillian said in the shapeless distance. “It won't be so hard anymore.”</p><p>He had always wondered if a person so desperately sick could understand words. Even if they couldn't sort meaning from sounds anymore, perhaps the mere friendly presence was a calmative. Peregrine hoped that was true, a hope to stoke his fire with.</p><p>Tillian's voice lilted outside the casting sensations until Peregrine was finished, until the brightcasting settled back into its stone. He opened his eyes to air and plain light. At his knees, this Belladonna person laid unmoving, smaller than ever. The ferrin around her sat quiet, thought and regret weighing on their ears.</p><p>Night scent bloomed in the air, the musty taste of darkcasting. Rose sat behind Peregrine, facing the still Hansart – she sat there braced and working. She was strong as the shell curve of her own back.</p><p>Aemets made a starch-crisp ceremony of everything, and funerals were no different. Breeli, Niro and Fahras moved like Rose's own limbs, scratching out two forest floor hollows under her watch. If they had only their wild instincts to guide them, the ferrin would have laid a friend to rest with mostly the same method, but their ears tipped quizzical now. Perhaps they could smell aemet ways at work here, a whiff of vine and vervain among the humid, brown leaves.</p><p>His carrying work done, the bony aemet bundles laid to their rest, Peregrine settled onto his tail to watch. Phantom weight still draped over his shoulders. The ferrin piled leaf litter and dry brambles to cover the shrouds, and they circled back to Rose's side.</p><p>“Great ones watch our friends,” Breeli said – and then she glanced apology to Rose. “Oh, look at me starting off like this. I could forget my own head.”</p><p>“It's fine,” Rose said. She was pale in the daylight, bloodless as a bean sprout, glistening-damp at her hairline. Fahras wanted to butt encouragement against her knee – the want showed in his eyes – but he didn't dare jostle Rose while she leaned heavy on a walking stick.</p><p>For all the watching he was doing, Peregrine scarcely caught any of Rose's parting words. Bless these friends; gods watch them; thoughts of that ilk were spoken at every departed soul's funeral. The ferrin began to leave, lolloping unsure, glancing back to be sure that Rose followed.</p><p>Peregrine fell into place beside her. “You shouldn't be spending so much of your strength walking.”</p><p>“It isn't far,” Rose said. “Verdana help me if I can't move my own feet.”</p><p>A pause hung. Rose looked at him, mild as bread, and refocused her effort on planting the walking stick. Peregrine watched her three-legged press toward home and began to believe that this young woman could do what she put her mind to. Only because she moved as steady as any miners' wings.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rolara Riora stared up at Peregrine. “I'm listening for squeaky breathing, right?”</p><p>For the time being, Rose and her caretakers slept and Peregrine had only this kit for company. She was grey-coloured, with black tips and clear eyes like Breeli. Sleek adolescent fur poked through her kitten fluff, making her nine months old at most. Perhaps she would take up wearing clothing soon, or perhaps not; she moved like her wild father did, jerking to attention at scattered moments, as though the forest called to her.</p><p>“Squeaky breathing,” Peregrine agreed. He removed his goggles, tied the strap neat and dropped them into his pouch, with the other items he hoped to forget. “Or any other sign of folk needing help. My hearing is poor. I'll need you to tell me if these friends are struggling for air.”</p><p>“All right. Listening is easy.” She swayed on her feet, still staring. “You're a korvi. Did you fly here?”</p><p>He held back the harrumph in his throat. “I did.”</p><p>“Is flying fun?”</p><p>“The wind is pleasant enough. Now, pay mind. You can't talk and listen at the same time.”</p><p>Rolara Riora flattened her ears at him – and just as quickly, she snapped bolt upright. “Oh! I think I hear flying right now.”</p><p>“Korvi wings?”</p><p>“I guess,” she called, bounding out the door.</p><p>Someone was bothering to visit this remnant of a village, whole days after it had begged to be saved. Peregrine followed Rolara Riora out into the daylight, possibilities simmering in his head. Fenwater's remaining folk lay buried in healing sleep and with luck, there may not be any more dead to bury. Banish Ethen if he was sending aid away from Opens – Peregrine would send it right back.</p><p>He wasn't sure who he expected to see landing on street dust, but it wasn't Syril of Reyardine. Quills flashed closed as the fellow landed; he turned the last of his flight momentum into a performer's bow.</p><p>Something about <span class="u">fancy this piece of work</span>, he babbled. <span class="u">Fine to see you, Peregrine</span>, and then some smiling pleasantry aimed at Rolara Riora.</p><p>She tipped her head, ears splaying eight questions at once. “Hi?”</p><p>“Reyardine.” Peregrine folded his arms. “Have you got news? Slowly, if you please.”</p><p>Syril made a show of gleaming teeth. <span class="u">Of course! Peregrine, my friend, the land looks after her favourites and I dare say you're one of them! </span></p><p>“Fine words to sweeten my tea with. Come inside, I have folk to watch.”</p><p>Syril carried bulging cargo pouches: at least he had the sense to bring goods as well as news, to make efficient use of his wings. Peregrine made lists in his head of the things Fenwater needed: mint, definitely, since they had put so much of it into steam. Perhaps something freshly roasted for Tillian to eat, and for the other ferrin while Peregrine was making an effort of it.</p><p>“Rolara Riora,” he said, standing in the shade and steam, “this is important. Go to each bedside and listen carefully to everyone's breathing. Tell me if anyone sounds dire.”</p><p>She dragged her eyes away from Syril's glinting bangles. “Oh. Yes, all right!” She scampered away.</p><p>“And Reyardine, keep your voice down, if you would. Folk here have had a wearisome few days and only now are they getting some rest.”</p><p>Syril smirked lopsided. <span class="u">Quite the set of rules I have to follow to speak with you, good fellow!</span> He turned his attention to scratching a pouch knot open, chattering.</p><p>“Facing me, if you would.”</p><p>Syril looked up, embarrassment splashing across his face. <span class="u">Ah, apologies! Imagine that, I can't keep that part straight–</span> and some chatter about <span class="u">every reed on the riverbank</span>, whatever that meant. <span class="u">At any pace, my real task is to see how your supplies are, here in Fenwater. You aren't running short, are you, good fellow? Don't hesitate to raise your voice if you are, there's always somewhere to fetch a cup of goodwill from!</span></p><p>“We could use six or seven knuckles of mint.”</p><p><span class="u">I've got plenty of that, fret not! Picked fresh this morning–</span> and something about Verdana herself. Something overwrought, no doubt. <span class="u">Anything else?</span></p><p>“I don't recall Rose mentioning anything.”</p><p>Syril peered at him, prying. <span class="u">Coneflower, perhaps? It's a terribly important plant in times like these, or so I've been told. Good for the airways.</span></p><p>“How have such excellent supplies come to Fenwater? There are twenty-five stricken here, Reyardine. A few ferrin have been managing most of it alone. Isn't there another town with a larger need?”</p><p>Syril laughed suddenly, a blunt and rueful nudge to Peregrine's hearing. <span class="u">Folk can see through me plain as air, I suppose! These goods are from Hotrock, just a few useful bits I was able to persuade into my pouches. This branch of the woods could use some of Hotrock's aid, or so I've heard from one tongue or another.</span> He blinked as though a gnat had just flown into his eye. <span class="u">Ferrinkind are running the place, you say?</span></p><p>“Rose will recover,” Peregrine said; he couldn't keep the cool drip from his voice.</p><p>Nodding, Syril muttered rapid. <span class="u">–And I told them this place needed aid, strike it, but there was no blood to be wrung out of that boulder. Favours, you see, Peregrine. It's a matter of favours.</span></p><p>The life of a messenger did involve a lot of favours – without folk to ask for work and for information, a messenger would starve. Peregrine had yet to figure out what this Reyardine jester was flying all over the western land for. He had never seen a messenger take payment while the demon roamed town streets – they seemed to fly with all their hearts and ask nothing more than to be kept like pigeons, fed and sheltered. Perhaps Syril collected some token payment before the worst of the tragedy struck, but surely he didn't plan to leech goods from the struggling remnants of Fenwater: some might call that a sin.</p><p>“And what,” Peregrine asked, “do you get out of doing this particular favour?”</p><p>Syril splayed a hand on his chest, a fine parody of shock. <span class="u">Why, friend, do what I can! What more can anyone in the whole green land do? Filling my belly is simply a pleasant side-effect of the whole business, you see.</span></p><p>“Truly?”</p><p>Yes, indeed! You know the feeling, don't you? Speeding toward a place, thinking about how they'll be delighted four times over to see what you're bringing them?</p><p>“I suppose.” Peregrine realized as soon as the words left his tongue: he knew the feeling of giving. It glowed, sincere as any fire. He would have given up his flight a dozen times already if he hadn't been travelling on that strength. He shook his head, and beckoned Syril. “Well, as long as you're here, let me find you something to trade for the mint.”</p><p>Anything at all, good Peregrine! I'm no fussier than a hungry crow right now!</p><p>If only there was carrion to trade. Peregrine fetched the pouch full of spent gemstones, and stared into the faint-glinting facets of quartz and citrine; Rose might use these for more weighty matters, for pooling her plantcasting strength or rebuilding her village. Mint leaves hardly mattered in an eventual scope, and Peregrine could only think of one gem he ought to trade away. Why not the hawk-eye bead? He could find Tillian another bead to match her eyes. She had a job plenty better than her fathers' and mothers'; she might start her own legacy. The round weight of the hawk-eye pulled in Peregrine's cargo pouch, buried in a rabble of things but no less present.</p><p>He forced his fingers around a quartz point, a fine clear one. In all sincerity, the hawk-eye wasn't his to trade. Peregrine would make his choice soon, for Tillian's sake as much as his, but she would need to agree with him – gods let them both find the strength.</p><p>Syril did have a fine bouquet of mint – which was a less fascinating topic of discussion than the Reyardine himself seemed to find it – but he carried no food more flavourful than travelling jerky. It wasn't worth fussing over. After a click of thought, Peregrine palmed his round, familiar goggles and offered them.</p><p><span class="u">Oh, that's a handsome piece, I must say!</span> Syril brightened at the sight of the brass lens casings, as though absorbing the shine for himself. <span class="u">You'd let these go for seven knuckles of mint, good Ruelle? Fine mint though it is!</span></p><p>“They're worn on their inner surfaces, you might note, and this rivet is loosening. Take them, Reyardine – I won't be needing them.”</p><p>“Peregrine?” The voice cut high through his ear din – Rolara Riora sat at his feet, again staring up. “Everybody sounds fine.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>He felt warmer, saying that to a ferrin: it made Rolara Riora swell with pride.</p><p>Syril said something, then, a rapid-murmuring question while he pocketed his new trinket. Rolara Riora's swivelling ears turned toward him, revealing which direction the chatter flowed.</p><p>“Peregrine's the leader,” she said. “And I'm helping.”</p><p>Peregrine knew it was true, underneath the frayed protests filling his gut. This village treated him the same as Redessence Clan did. He had another jumble of family, and after enough time spent, standing at the head of any group ceased to feel strange.</p><p>“Reyardine,” he said. “What was it you asked?”</p><p>Apologies for asking it over your head, friend! I was just wondering who's leading the care for these folk.</p><p>Syril had shaped his words perfectly well when he asked the first time. If Peregrine had cared to, he could have followed that string of words and answered for himself. <span class="u">You just need to try</span>, Tillian didn't tell him.</p><p>“Fine,” Peregrine said. Then, to Rolara Riora, “Keep watching these folk, if you would. I'll be outside a moment.”</p><p>She nodded too hard and hurried off. A woman stirred across the room, propping up on an elbow and mumbling; Rolara Riora went to her, straight as birds' flight.</p><p><span class="u">Ah, getting outside for a moment, excellent thinking</span>, Syril delighted. He trotted after Peregrine, back out into the mottled gemlight. <span class="u">It does look like these kin are through the worst, if I may say so. I haven't got a single grain of mage training – don't start a rumour to the contrary – but from what I've seen of these dreadful sorts of times, Fenwater is faring as well as anyone could hope!</span></p><p>Peregrine obliged him with a glance. “Are they?”</p><p><span class="u">My, yes.</span> Syril busied himself, fussing mane feathers into place around his horns, squinting with thought. <span class="u">There's no hurry here, no crowd of caretakers fluttering about with their potions and teas, none of that dreadful, ah, demon's sound, if you know the one I mean. No, my good Ruelle, things are turning skyward. That's how it looks from where I'm sitting!</span></p><p>“Then you should be in Opens. They need hands as well as wings.”</p><p>Syril curled his tongue – a sympathetic cluck offered itself in Peregrine's memory. <span class="u">Of course I should. I knew I should have stopped in Opens, bless those poor friends! I'll see what I can arrange for them, there's always a trifle to be found if a person works enough to find it. And I'll be back here later. I think I may have an aemet friend to bring here, strike me for saying it when I'm not sure!</span> He mumbled nonsense and then slapped a fist eagerly into his palm, his bracelet beads wagging startled. <span class="u">Yes, that's the spirit! I'll be going, then. I've got another trip left in me and I might as well keep up the– Oh! Hold on to one more moment and don't spare the reins!</span></p><p>As though Peregrine was doing anything but standing, waiting, and raising a brow.</p><p>Syril snatched up one of his pouches, beaming. <span class="u">I've got just the thing, Peregrine, for a dragon fellow out flying for the first time in years! My, but I can't imagine being cooped up in tunnels, it sends a chill through the feathers like–</span></p><p>“Reyardine. If you please.”</p><p><span class="u">Yes, yes, apologies!</span> He withdrew his hand from the pouch to reveal a clay pot – the fruit-round type that mages stored ointments in, tied closed with a generous length of thread. <span class="u">I'm told</span>, Syril said through grinning lips, <span class="u">That overworked wings need arnica rubbed into them. It sounds as though the stuff does a riverful of good!</span></p><p>“You ...” Peregrine pressed his numb mouth closed. Of all the times to think of an old miner's aches.</p><p>I know a friend who happened to have some balms in reserve, it's no trouble, Peregrine, none at all! And you don't have to trade me a thing for it. Those goggles are plenty plus an extra handful! It's fine!</p><p>“That's–” Peregrine forced it off his tongue. “That's good of you.”</p><p><span class="u">Of course!</span> Syril waved palms, his voice skywheeling to audible heights. “I thought that might put some wind under your wings! Wonderful!” <span class="u">But yes, I'll be going! Don't fret about Opens for a moment, good Ruelle, just do what these folk need. Good winds to your cause! </span></p><p>They would need favourable winds to clear their last few hurdles, these last worries and quibbles and goodbyes to be said. Peregrine gripped the jar tight. There was no guessing when Tillian would have a moment free to rub ointment into his back, but the thought was solace enough.</p><p>“Well,” he told Syril, “Fair skies to you, too, then.”</p><p>Rolara Riora was fetching a drink when Peregrine returned, tottering on her hind feet and watching the cup slosh, leaving surprisingly few dark splatters on the ground behind her. The aemet recipient looked to be free of her healing sleep – Peregrine hadn't seen that particular woman move a hair's width until now, until she gripped the cup and thanked Rolara Riora with a weary stirring of lips.</p><p>And then the kitten darted to Peregrine, to stop at his feet. “You're back!” She quirked her ears. “Why are you worried?”</p><p>He minded his posture and blinked leisure-slow. “Odd that you should say that.”</p><p>“You look worried.”</p><p>“Hmm. The good Reyardine gives me a headache, that's all.”</p><p>Rolara Riora turned that over in her head, and decided, “At least he's gone now?”</p><p>“Small blessings,” Peregrine said. He sat by the fire. The jar's varnish-smooth clay was proving pleasant to hold.</p><p>Rose only napped as long as the demon forced her to, and then she lurched away to her own house to blend herbs. Tonics, she told Peregrine. Crucial for helping weak aemets recover their strength. She wouldn't leave preparations to the last click this time.</p><p>That evening, Tillian and Wellis and Fahras bent over healing stones barely needed, wiping away the last traces of rasping. It looked cathartic, chasing Fenwater's last demon sounds away with a barely summoned spark. Niro and Keevi tested foreheads with careful fingers and deliberate sniffing, their brows drawn with care. More fevers broke; the pile of castoff cloths began looking more like a ferrin nest than the actual sleeping corner did.</p><p>Alita Lira was coaxed from her pile of siblings to be Peregrine's next companion. She hardly rubbed the heaviness from her eyes before other ferrin fluffed the nest and wrapped themselves into it.</p><p>“Listening for bad breathing? Right. I can do that.” She blinked up at Peregrine. Good posture on this kit, but she would miss out on the whole land if she kept her ears so limp.</p><p>“There shouldn't be any more of the squeaking sounds,” Peregrine said. “Just tell me of any raspy breathing, or coughing.”</p><p>“You're Tillian's friend, right?”</p><p>Sometimes, Peregrine missed kittens' thirst for answers. But he couldn't pretend to miss the questions blunter than the side of a woodshed.</p><p>“You might say we're friends. Tillian is part of my clan.” These kits likely hadn't seen more than an occasional flash of merchants' feathers, living in a damp forest as they did. And Peregrine doubted that Breeli and Niro had explained the particulars of korvi houses and clans. He added, “A clan is a korvi's variety of family.”</p><p>“Uh huh. Do we have to use stones on people? You can show me how, right?”</p><p>At least she wished to learn this much. If Alita Lire's parents had no skill to teach her with, Peregrine would do just as well to fill the gap – he muttered answer and headed for the gem pouch. “You ought to know how to use a casting stone. Whether they're useful depends entirely on a person knowing how to use them. And child, keep your ears high. It'll help you hear.”</p><p>“I guess. Are you good at hearing things?” She stopped, realizing. “No, you can't be. That's what I'm for.”</p><p>Peregrine swallowed his pride, a bitter-searing gulp.</p><p>“I've learned a few tricks in my time.” He fixed Alita Lira with a look. “They're listening tricks, though. Not the sort where I roll over or fetch things.”</p><p>Alita Lira giggled, lolloping in delight. Perhaps Peregrine wasn't as crusty as he imagined. He sat, pulling a quartz from the pouch, and Alita Lira hopped in close to see; the green spark inside shed enough light to make her eyes shine like pondwater.</p><p>“All right,” she said. “I can learn two things from you – using stones and hearing. That glowy part in the middle means it's a healing stone, right?”</p><p>“Just lift your ears and pay mind.”</p><p>Alita Lira, he found as the evening ground on, made a passable earferrin. She reacted sharp as a whip and she was shy to say absolutely nothing. But then, Peregrine had never met a ferrin who couldn't learn the earferrin trade. Chosing one had always been a matter of asking the best-suited kitten never to leave.</p><p>Once Alita Lira understood the broadest points of wielding a healing stone, Peregrine bade her to practice listening and warn him if he was needed. It was a lot of responsibility, he said, which made the child light up with pride.</p><p>He tried to sleep. The ear din hummed too steady; the blankets under his chin felt strange and itchy; he was even itchier inside his skin at the thought of leaving this place. After a sensible half hour of laying down, Peregrine rose and set about trimming the rot from potatoes. If the entire village was poised to wake soon, he could at least have a meal ready for them.</p><p>Soon enough, there were nursing duties to attend to – Peregrine lifted a sleep-limp aemet from her bed, while Tillian sat on his shoulder to keep watch.</p><p>“Rose is always telling us not to worry.” Tillian shifted, as if to trample her concerns away. “But she keeps making us worry, when she works so hard.”</p><p><span class="u">I noticed</span>, Wellis replied. He and Keevi whipped old bedding out and new bedding under, brisk as performers' scarf tricks.</p><p>“She's just doing all she can,” Keevi said.</p><p>Doing literally all she could, and fainting dead away afterward. It was short-sighted of a leader, to wear themselves down to a useless nub – the same went for Ethen and Daisy. Peregrine may have asked a lot of his wings sometimes but he had never exhausted himself too badly to walk, not even in his most stubborn-burning moments.</p><p>“Rose,” he told the ferrin, “is of a driven mind. All we can do is support her and be sure to–”</p><p>Two taps of Tillian's hand warned him silent; that came a bare instant before door curtain movement snatched the edge of Peregrine's vision. There was time enough to snap his mouth shut. He would need quick-striking reflexes and careful attention to his own volume, but if he were doing this alone, Peregrine guessed that he could keep himself from coming off too much of a boor.</p><p>Rose was bringing in a new pitcher of tonic. “It's rose hip and nettle,” she said, “for nourishment. It'll help our kin recover their strength.”</p><p>The ferrin chirped loyal answers and Rose left, looking like some of the worry had been plucked from her laden branches.</p><p>Back to gossip-spiced work, then. Peregrine centered the aemet over her fresh linens.</p><p>“It does seem like the tonics are giving them a lift,” Tillian said. “Galen and Chicory woke up already. They're still weak, but they're awake.” She leaped to the ground and held the aemet's antennae away from being laid on; at the touch, a flinch ran through bony weight.</p><p>Peregrine eased his hands out from under the aemet. Thinking of the woman like that – as nothing more than an aemet – seemed crass, and he scratched at his memory for a name. This was the mother of the child Tillian liked. Peregrine should rightly have remembered.</p><p>“Merle?” Tillian shook the woman's shoulder. “Wake up, please.”</p><p>Yes, this was Merle Saranstas, the one with terrible news to awaken to. She stirred toward awareness, eyes cloudy; Tillian helped a cup to her lips and watched her struggle to swallow. And as Tillian eased her back onto the pillow, Peregrine wondered if he had seen this before – Tillian's hands moving smooth, the attentive bend of her back. Tillian had a knack for people. He knew the trait was there; that knack made her a talented earferrin instead of a merely capable one, but Peregrine was biased in his regard. Anyone else watching this moment would see no particular trade: they would see only Tillian standing on her own feet, braced firm enough to steady someone else.</p><p>Tillian looked to him. “Clover must need a bed change by now. We should see to her next.”</p><p>Perhaps Tillian's title was <span class="u">healer</span> now, since she tried to mend every hurt and fill every need she came across. That sounded like a fine enough job. Peregrine hummed, pushing the ground to rise. “Just show me who to lift.”</p><p>Tillian kept looking into him – there was never any hiding from ferrin eyes – and she lolloped ahead to Clover's bedside. The child stirred already, mumbling in her sleep. Her narrow voice pierced Peregrine's ear din but there were no words to take meaning from.</p><p>Peregrine picked Clover up, gathering her coltish limbs with more care than effort; the child made a jumble of sounds and went quiet. Tillian watched. Even as she asked something of Wellis and Keevi, Tillian watched Clover, unwavering – she laid a hand on Clover's bare wrist and left it there without shame.</p><p>“She's been having nightmares. Having somebody there seems to calm her down.”</p><p>That someone could be Tillian. It was a simple change to imagine. Here was Peregrine's fear, breathing on the back of his neck; this was the place and here were the people he would lose Tillian to.</p><p>Tillian squirmed on her feet. Linens fluttered behind her, light-coloured mundanity.</p><p>“Are you all right?”</p><p>“Fine,” Peregrine said. He had napped, and eaten a warm meal topped with green-spicy herbs. That was surely better than Tillian had been living on these past days. “I'm only thinking.”</p><p>“You're worrying.”</p><p>And what if he was? He looked away at the floor dirt. Keevi commented on the supplies, and then she and Wellis were gone.</p><p>“You can put her down now,” Tillian said.</p><p>He had nearly forgotten that he held a flower-fragile aemet child. Peregrine laid Clover back in her bed, and felt only the gut-deepest beginnings of a flinch as Tillian touched her antennae. Clover was a trusting one.</p><p>“Peregrine?” Tillian watched him, asking with her eyes. “You can tell me about it later. All right?”</p><p>“Whenever there's time,” Peregrine muttered. Tillian deserved to hear this direct from his mouth.</p><p>She nodded. Her ears lowered, tentative. “When people aren't around, I mean. Whenever you'd like.”</p><p>“If you'll pardon me, I should stoke the fire.”</p><p>“All right.”</p><p>It was because Peregrine didn't want to watch Fahras wrestle any more long sticks inside. And because he knew how to keep the heat and humidity constant, as was best for weak breathing. Not because of his sudden cowardice. Peregrine watched smoke flow over dry wood. He couldn't imagine what he might say to Tillian in that looming <span class="u">whenever</span>, but he would find the words – he had to.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rose felt stronger after each nap, the exhaustion receeding and leaving only a dull film on her senses. Broad swaths of air moved as people passed by, drawing blurry paths; sights and colours stood planted in her vision, reliable. She forced down sips of her own tonics and chewed managrass seed to fibrous paste until she stopped feeling like she had been scraped empty inside. Surely her energy would all return. Surely the worn sensation in her chest would go away. Rose kept Belladonna's walking stick by her side – still Belladonna's walking stick, even though its owner wouldn't have hesitated to call it a gift.</p><p>When a mage thought they couldn't keep on, Father said once, they were nearly always wrong. A moment of breathing and prayer could summon all the strength they needed. Rose tried it, sitting at Merle's bedside, rubbing soothing arcs around the base of her own antennae. There must have been truth buried in that old advice – her limbs began feeling lighter, like she drank vigor out of the ground.</p><p>She must have sat idle longer than she planned to: air nudged motion beside her, and Rose opened her eyes to find Merle sitting upright, staring bleary.</p><p>“Oh! Thank the High Ones!” Rose hurried a cup of tonic into Merle's hands. “Drink some more, if you would, Merle.”</p><p>She did, gingerly, with the dozens of tiny motions involved in swallowing. Her eyes tracked motion together, following the rocking fluid in the cup as well as the folk moving distant across the room. And she had plainly understood a spoken request; Merle had come out of the demon's grasp unscathed.</p><p>“Is everything done ...?” Her voice croaked stiff.</p><p>“Not yet.” Rose ran one thumbnail over another. “Folk are still sleeping. Many of them won against the demon, though. We've been fortunate.”</p><p>Merle's face creased warm. She looked around more thoroughly, first to Clover's bed. “I didn't doubt you for a moment, dear. If any daughter could–”</p><p>That was when Merle saw the empty bed space. She stared into the middle distance, accusing her eyes of lying and asking her airsense instead. That moment was a knife through Rose's heart; she imagined Merle crumbling before the look actually showed on her face.</p><p>“Where is Vilhelm?”</p><p>Nerves tingled through Rose, between her ribs and along her scalp, the crowded sensation of being alone. Her mage mouth knew the right words even if she hated to think them.</p><p>“He's ... He passed. I'm so sorry for your loss.”</p><p>Another moment scraped past. Merle sat trembling with the pulse running through her.</p><p>“We did everything we could,” Rose said. “Everything.”</p><p>Merle looked again at the rumpled bedclothes beside her – rumpled from Rose's use more recently than Vilhelm's. Sitting there halcyon, letting out a long breath, Merle rearranged her fingers around her cup. “It's not your fault. Sometimes these things–” Her throat failed, quivering.</p><p>“Clover is fine ...? She woke up for a while earlier, and she's evaded the demon's claws completely.”</p><p>“My darling sprout. Oh, I'll have to tell her that– That–”</p><p>Telling a child was the difficult part. Rose had wondered for days where her own mother truly went; the explanation sounded thin as paper, crackling artificial when folk held it toward her. But she had soon learned. Life and love filled the land, and terrible things happened regardless.</p><p>“Merle–”</p><p>“I told him,” Merle choked, “to dry his feet better. That wretched swamp water, I always said it'd–”</p><p>Rose laid her hands over Merle's. The clay cup pulled heat away from their layered fingers.</p><p>“No. Clover is still here.” Merle pulled one hand free to rub at the liquid flash in her eyes. “And she's fine, you said. Sorrel, Gavin and Dale left here safe – Verdana willing, maybe they still are. And I'm here to watch them all. That's– That's better than a lot of folk have fared.”</p><p>Rose hummed, a steadier note than she thought she could make. Merle still had family and a life to live for them. Trees could be torn by lightning and fire and carry on despite it all, pushing new buds through the charred wood and grief.</p><p>Merle sighed, a loose-rattling sound. “It's alright, I won't go seeds to the wind. Not right now, anypace. You'll show me where he's been laid, won't you, Rose?”</p><p>“Of course. Once you have the strength to walk, though. Please don't force yourself to it.” Rose felt otherkind eyes on her, ferrin faces pointing toward her to listen and then turning away reluctant.</p><p>Merle pressed her lips and agreed. She accepted some cornmeal porridge and spent the next hours looking at the roof – outside, great Verdana's trees rattled in the wind.</p><p>Villagers woke one by one as the hours passed. They all sat blank-eyed at first, moving on muscles rubbery from sleep. They drank and took the time to remember themselves; Rose wondered if they remembered fighting.</p><p>Now, knowing that the worst had blown past, she took real refuge in her knowledge of herbs. Mint revitalized the throat and stomach, and rosehips nourished, and rue brought luck in recovery. Simple curatives could work their own form of plantcasting magic. Rose walked her forest paths to find chard and nettles, and she added the wholesome greens to every bowl of porridge. She brewed tea, great steaming pots full because there were dozens of cups to share it between.</p><p>Fragrance filled the air as Merle cooked a panful of blacknuts and barley – comfort food, she said, just as her own mother used to make it. One ferrin or another sat by her side the entire time, alert with worry, but Merle rationed her strength well and there were plenty of hands to help scrub the dishes. Recovered folk talked until the air hummed. Peregrine tied the door curtain open, grumbling that there was no sense steaming them all like sweet buns anymore. Ordinary life was trickling back into Fenwater.</p><p>The only remedy Rose couldn't use sat in its bowl, spoon cemented into its centre. She couldn't stand to look at the willow paste, not until she could come up with a use for it. The ferrin hadn't used it all but that responsibility was Rose's alone: willow paste was the mage's physic, not a common tea herb. Washing that living tree's gift out with the dinner scraps would be a waste and a sin. Rose could bring it to the Middling grounds, she supposed, and add it to the other plant trimmings being returned to Verdana. That would be a milder disgrace.</p><p>Father said – and Rose remembered these words sure as she remembered how to chew – that willow bark was Verdana's most potent gift. There had been a burdensome look in his eyes the day he said that. Willow was the leader of plantkind, the most potent and wise of Verdana's grand trees, and willow deserved respect. If bark was taken, it had to be used.</p><p>Rose stared at the bowl. She dug up courage, and lost hold of it, and dug up more. She took the bowl and spoon: willow paste squelched as she stirred, wood pulp churning over itself. Rose watched the paste move until she was sure there was no trace of mold or rot, until she knew she had no reason not to use this remedy.</p><p>After another held breath, Rose hurried the whole heaping spoonful into her mouth. Willow helped people, she told herself as she forced her face smooth and swallowed. Willow grew toward the sky and bent to shelter folk, so it could help Rose do the same. She imagined wood covering her body, a thin ring of experience added in these last days. Rose would become a mage as strong as trees, she thought, and she hoped Verdana would hear that pledge.</p><p>In the following day, more villagers found appetites and wobbled to their feet. A handful drifted back into their routines, minding berry patches and caged pigeons. Breeli and Niro's kits had little to do except the straightening and fetching errands given to them as a mere excuse to move. Rose watched the kits race one another from house to house, laughing like children – she walked careful to avoid stepping on tails or toes.</p><p>The only steam in the sick house rose from a simmering pan: Merle crouched at the fireside, Clover beside her to learn the difference between chutney and jam. The bedding mats would be packed away soon, once the last aemet had woken or passed, once the demon was truly gone. That moment hadn't come yet. Nine days after telling her villagers to flee, Rose looked across the day-lit sick house at the only patient left, the still form of Cliffton Irving.</p><p>“Rose,” Peregrine said as he passed, cordially gruff. He held a round bundle of rough-snapped branches under his arm. He had picked those up from the ground, already shed by Verdana's trees – and if he hadn't, Rose didn't want to know about it.</p><p>“Good Peregrine. Is there anything you need?”</p><p>His brow furrowed thoughtful as he set the wood down. He made such carrying work look effortless, balancing himself with a slight stirring of his tail like the wood was no more trouble than cotton fluff.</p><p>“No need that I can see,” he said. “Wellis and Keevi are nearly through with the laundry. Unless you'd like us to eat more of your meals, we won't impose any longer.”</p><p>“Of course,” Rose said. The <span class="u">imposition</span> part was far from true – Skyfield town was richer for having Peregrine's clan in it. She shifted. “Do you need anything for the trip? Oh, I suppose you'll need a companion pouch to manage Tillian, Wellis and Keevi, won't you? I don't believe we have one, but a little sewing could–”</p><p>Peregrine shook his head. “I wouldn't try carrying the three of them at once, that's asking to strain myself. I'll be flying out with Wellis and Keevi once as we know the fate of that last fellow. Wouldn't want anyone fretting.”</p><p>“No, of course not. It's simply that– Well, there's no telling yet how Cliffton will fare. He may sleep for days longer. Or he may not have the strength to awaken.”</p><p>“He'll take as long as he takes.”</p><p>“I suppose.” Rose picked at the thumbnail that hadn't bled yet. “This is longer than usual for a fit young fellow sleeping off toxin ... I'll check on him again. Do you suppose it'll take you much time to fly two of your ferrin and return?”</p><p>Movement pulled at Rose's airsense. She concentrated to find its source; Peregrine's back was tightening, air sifting in between his feathers.</p><p>“A day, perhaps,” he said, smooth as grass. “But I'm not convinced that I'll need to fly twice. I'm going for more wood. Don't worry if I'm out for a while.”</p><p>Rose watched him leave, horns held high enough to nudge the tied door curtain. She thought his words over again. And she grew certain – grey, stony and sure – of what Peregrine had told her. For the first honest time, Rose considered what Fenwater might grow into if it had Tillian tending it.</p><p>Tillian returned with a knuckle of fresh mint. She stopped short, like the thoughts in the room warned her. All Rose could do was turn to her tonic pitchers and let her back mime ignorance.</p><p>With a fresh-poured cup of tonic in hand, Rose went to Cliffton. The two younger Irvings looked up from a foursticks game scratched into the dirt between their beds; they watched Rose pass, hope placed careful on their faces. People believed in her, same as before.</p><p>Kneeling by Cliffton's bedside, Rose took stock of the scene: Cliffton's shallow, steady breathing stirring his chest; Fahras curled in his brother's underarm, a tense fur pillow. While Rose put fingertips to Cliffton's pulse points, Tillian approached through the air.</p><p>“Has he said anything,” Rose asked softly, “any mutters in his sleep?” Attempts at speech would mean that his mind still held together.</p><p>“I heard him say something an eightmoment ago.” Tillian sat taut and alert. “It didn't sound like real words, though.”</p><p>Fahras lifted his head from under his tail brush. “I think he's saying Arlin and Sherwin's names. Muddled up, and quiet.”</p><p>“His breathing sounds fine,” Tillian hurried to say. “And he'll swallow a bit of water whenever we pinch him. Is there anything else we can do?”</p><p>Aemet folk didn't always wake from their healing sleep. Sometimes they had only enough strength to limp away from the battleground and find an aether-soft place to rest. Rose wished she had stayed awake in the memory-distant village, awake to learn what a peaceful death in sleep would look like. She supposed Cliffton would simply stop rousing for his friends' pinching fingers, then stop making any motion at all. She was wetly unsure between her organs and she hated the feeling, suddenly; all leaders ever seemed to do was try.</p><p>She refocused on Cliffton's lifesigns. Body heat wafted upward, a fraction warmer than the air just as betweenkind ought to be, and she could sense his exhaled breath dissipating away. She laid fingertips under Cliffton's jaw, finding his pulse rhythm steady and weak, brushing plantcasting over his throat flesh. The casting moved restless and aimless – there was healing to do, a baneful presence over Cliffton's blood and structures, but none of it substantial enough for an outside force to sink roots into.</p><p>Rose looked to the ferrin. “The healing stones won't work anymore. Cliffton needs to do what's left.”</p><p>Tillian nodded. Fahras's head sank back onto his folded hands. It couldn't end like this, with Cliffton fading away for want of something no one else could give. Rose had foundered through enough steam and shadow, and told enough friends bad news – there had to be some mage's tactic that could help Cliffton and her thoughts were muddying, her every supposition stirring up dust and silt.</p><p>“Fahras,” Arlin asked. He turned, his attention snagging brief on his still brother's face. “Sherwin and I were going to check the fields, see how the cotton's faring. Would you come with us? Don't worry, Rose, we won't lift a finger toward the tools just yet.”</p><p>Fahras stood to four feet. “That's fine. I can water the fields for you. Uhh–” He looked to Tillian.</p><p>“We'll tell you if anything happens,” she said, sure.</p><p>Swallowing with a ripple of fur down his throat, Fahras nodded, and forced his footsteps away – Arlin and Sherwin were on their feet and he was compelled to follow, pulled on a current. It would take all day for one ferrin to water a cotton field by himself. Gods bless Fahras, he wouldn't grudge a moment of it.</p><p>Tillian waited – so precisely that her heartbeat must have measured the time – and murmured, “There isn't anything at all we can do ...?”</p><p>Enduring gripthia was a matter of strength and will. Even with all the help in the land, each person needed to live their own life; no one could carry that burden for another. But Rose couldn't place why a man like Cliffton would struggle now. Elders with brown streaks in their hair had hobbled back to consciousness. Little Clover had gripped her own mug of tea as she sat up for the first time in days. A vital piece was missing here.</p><p>“Let me look over my supplies,” she said. “There must be another treatment to use. You've been giving him the tonic, haven't you?”</p><p>“And mint water,” Tillian agreed. “Every three hours, or sometimes every two hours. For Fahras.”</p><p>Busying one's hands was sometimes the only work an aide could do – when they had no choice but to try. Rose stood. “All right. Let me see what I can manage.”</p><p>“Remember, kit.” Breeli looked up from half-gathered bedclothes; she gave a crooked smile. “Thinking's easier when you use your head.”</p><p>Arnon said that. While smiling dry, while blending the cures his village needed. Rose remembered that much, and it was a windvane pointing the way for her.</p><p>The sick house stirred restless as Rose headed for the door. Murmured conversations sprouted behind her, and Breeli and Tillian bounded quick through the stirring air. Peregrine sat at the hearth, mantled over a hot-steaming drink; he glanced assessment at Rose as she passed and had no comment to add. It was as though Fenwater had held its breath, so that Rose had an uneasy peace to think in.</p><p>She went alone to her supplies, standing straight as a willow trunk. Staring at the bottled tinctures, she thought of nourishing herbs, recalling their names in rolling chants. There was something here Rose wasn't seeing. She was making tonic out of every restorative herb the marsh forests could grow; she had stockpiled ointments and elixers for every bodily trouble a person had ever known; there had to be some other preparation to stop a friend from wasting away.</p><p>Rose noticed the empty house air again. She hoped Arnon was comfortable in Verdana's keep – and she reoriented her thoughts with the present moment.</p><p>She picked up the debris of days gone by, the stray herb leaves and food crusts that had fallen into corners and failed to bother anyone else. Beginning from the beginning would help. Rose thought through everything she had learned in training, including the cleaning chores that kept a mage's workspace pure. She smoothed and straightened while her mind carried on, through the basic cuts and grind consistancies of herbs, past the sessions of focusing her inner strength. Once she knew those sure, she spread her thoughts outward, toward logical fundamentals.</p><p>Cliffton had no more gripthia affliction – only traces of the beast's passage. He faced no immediate, clawed enemy. But any eightmoment in these past days may have done the demon's work already: Cliffton could have grown so feverish that his mind cooked to ash, or smothered under toxin until his spirit extinguished. These were only possibilities, Rose reminded herself. Only frightful ideas. She needed to try, so long as she had patch of earth to grow an effort from.</p><p>A ferrin parted the air outside, walking upright and closer. Rose paused, putting down her cleaning rag, mending her face to composure; she watched the door curtain and Niro entering through it.</p><p>“Ah, here is Rose,” he said, fond. “Do you need things?”</p><p>“No, thank you. I'm only thinking.”</p><p>Niro lolloped to her. He held something that parted the air in a familiar way and he opened his hand to reveal it: five slender pea pods. “For you,” he said. “Green is good.”</p><p>The simple truth of it spread a smile over Rose's face; she stooped to take the gift. “It is. I should be eating more greens to get my strength back. Are the pea fields all right?”</p><p>His face fell. “They're not wet enough. Some are yellow, too far away from wet earth, but we can bring water. Some still have peas, for a meal. They're good for putting on.” He paused, quirking his ears. “Is that the word? Putting on like a fire.”</p><p>After a baffled few clicks, Rose understood: wholesome vegetables helped a person in the same way seasoned wood helped flames. It was a truth large enough to strike her.</p><p>“They're good for feeding a person, you mean? That's a good thing to say, Niro, it's very true. If you and your family wouldn't mind, please gather all the young peas you can.”</p><p>“We can.” With a smile, he left, his bald tail spot a bouncing flag.</p><p>Rose turned back to the shelves, chewing a crisp-yielding pea pod. Even a half-wild ferrin and his instincts knew there were sprigs of plant that could nourish people, but this wasn't choosing a tea herb so much as–</p><p>Putting on like a fire. Fires needed fuel and so did people. With her heart petrifying, Rose recalled that Cliffton had taken nothing but tea in the last eightday.</p><p>She whirled to the herb supplies and was choosing plump rosehips before her airsense had stilled. What a simple mistake, simple enough to be enormous. Cliffton had spent his energy on chores in that first fear-stiff day, then retired to bed while everyone else passed rich broth around. After fighting the demon for days and sleeping away its toxin for days more, he had no more banked strength to use. Rose hurried the rosehips to her mortar and pestle, crushed them with a few driving strokes and hunted for the right size of cooking pot. This was a case of malnourishment – and she knew how to treat a simple hunger.</p><p>She used twice as many crushed rosehips as strictly needed, and added more afterward. Properly green-infused tonic would come later; right now, every moment Cliffton went without food was a moment he dwindled in. Rose paused over her tub of honey, mind racing, hands poised useless in the surrounding air. Vilhelm and Merle had fussed about honey taint. Their conversation looked like old onion skins in Rose's memory, brittle and yellow.</p><p>She spent a moment digging crystallized honey out of her condiment basket. Grainy facets caught light as Rose opened the fishleather package: this was honey from a harvest batch no one had fallen ill from. This safe-proven batch would prevent her taking a chance Cliffton couldn't afford. Vilhelm would have groused something about good sense, if he were still with them.</p><p>Rose made a hurried mull, allowing it one whole moment to simmer in the hearth coals' heat, just long enough for the blond pile of honey crystals to dissolve. She poured the sweet-steaming mash through a cloth, and fanned steam off the tonic as she walked.</p><p>Tillian joined her at Cliffton's bedside, staring a question.</p><p>“This batch is like food thin enough to drink,” Rose said, kneeling. “This should help him.”</p><p>Tillian took the cup, humming a note of welcome understanding. “How often should he have this?”</p><p>“As soon as it's cooled enough to drink, give him as much as he'll take. Keep minding him every two hours, and tell me if anything is different in him, any slightest thing.”</p><p>Nodding, Tillian brought the cup to Cliffton's side, settling into position to alertly wait.</p><p>This remedy made sense. Plenty of decisions made sense, though, only for fate to disagree. Rose dried her palms on her leggings and left; she couldn't stand to watch. She had more meal-worthy plants to find. She needed to walk and run and move unless her nerves wore away.</p><p>Rose would dry the majority of the nettles she carried, she decided on the walk back to Fenwater. She chewed her lip. She ought to have more dried nettle on hand as an alternative to the dizzyingly strong tinctures – dried herb would become one more stockpile to use when she needed to, instead of asking time and effort of anyone else. Responsibility made all the more sense now.</p><p>Street dirt packed under Rose's shoes, and the first note of Breeli's voice broke all concentration into shards.</p><p>“Hey, Rose!” She leaned out the sick house door, frowning kindly. “Tillian wants to see you, and no dawdling around it!”</p><p>The daylight was a solid gold hue plainly two hours later than the light she had left in, and Tillian needed her. Rose dawdled only long enough to put the nettles inside her own doorway.</p><p>And Tillian shone with relief at the sight of Rose, running to sit at her feet. “He seems a bit better! He stayed awake for a moment after the second time I gave him the food tonic.”</p><p>Hope tore through Rose. “Was he tracking? His eyes, I mean – did they fix on you?”</p><p>“I'm not sure. He hardly opened them at all. But his words sounded a little more like words?”</p><p>“Let me make another batch of rich tonic for him,” Rose said. “It may be too soon to tell.”</p><p>She put a second batch of mash on to simmer, and scrubbed her mortar with clean sand. Now she could give the curative essences the correct measure time for stewing. She realigned her herb-working tools and she noted the home around her, everything as it should be and a core of steam rising through coals' heat. Simple techniques and mages' calm stability: she would remember those things for the future.</p><p>When Rose brought more food tonic to Cliffton's bedside, she brought a candle as well, the better to check his condition. Cliffton's colour looked vital enough. He was sleeping nearly ordinary, with Breeli tugging a fresh tunic straight over his chest.</p><p>“Small wonder in a big land,” she said, “He's stirring again. Either I gave his antennae a good rattling or his ears are burning from all this talk about him.”</p><p>“Or maybe both,” Tillian added. She picked distractedly at a bowl of young peas, surely a meal Breeli had insisted she take. “Should we try to wake him up?”</p><p>Rose hesitated. More than anything, she wanted to know.</p><p>“It may not hurt anything to wake him,” she said. But gods watch Rose while she did it – Great Ones stop her if waking this man would ruin everything she was trying to give him. She put a hand to his shoulder. “Cliffton. Please.”</p><p>He made sound when shaken, an oil-thick groan coating his mouth. Impulses jangled through Rose's body – she ought not to bother him while he was weak, she ought to leave well enough alone but Cliffton needed to be bothered. She shook him again and his eyes swam in dazed circles under their lids.</p><p>“Hope we haven't put our sights too high,” Breeli said. She reached for Cliffton's antenna. “Here.”</p><p>Airsense outlined the points of Breeli's nails grazing chitin – the thought alone was like slivers driving under Rose's skin, and sensing the motion made her innards swim. But Cliffton flinched, his jerking reflex lifting him a knucklewidth off his bed – Tillian hastened to put pillows behind him.</p><p>“That's more like it.” Breeli smirked. “Think that's a good sign, kit?”</p><p>Rose nodded and took Cliffton's searching hand – it wavered above the bedclothes, aimless. “Cliffton?”</p><p>“What.”</p><p>He slurred, his eyes slit open and wandering glue-slow. Cliffton was about to show his demon wounds, about to show whether he could see or think or truly live at all. Forgetting the answer she meant to give him, Rose watched him, tongue stuck frightened to the roof of her mouth.</p><p>“It's time to wake up,” Tillian said for her. She leaned close, inspecting Cliffton, ears twisting slight. “Come on, you need to open your eyes.”</p><p>He lurched and failed to sit any farther up; Breeli hopped behind him to push on his shell. As he rose into newer air, Cliffton's eyes fluttered wider.</p><p>“That's it,” Tillian said, all light praise. “It's not healthy to sleep too long, really.”</p><p>He moved like his body wasn't built for sitting, like he was firewood meant to lay flat and silent. He blinked more. And after a long moment of staring at Rose, fog-distant, he croaked, “Arlin?”</p><p>That gaze wavered in front of her, fixed on nothing but air. Like his eyes paid him no heed.</p><p>“No, I'm Rose,” she said as she bled inside. “You can airsense that, can't you?”</p><p>A thick pause was born. Rose formed Cliffton's hands to a cup of tonic; he held it obedient, focusing on airshapes.</p><p>“You're ... Forgive me, Rose. I can't seem to–” He touched his face and a low groan fell from his throat. “High Ones, how long was I asleep?”</p><p>“Days. Several days.” Joy and guilt tumbled inside her. “It's good to see you awake.”</p><p>She kept a steadying hand on the cup as Cliffton raised it; his arms trembled at the strange motion, a fluttering at the finest edge of airsense. After a few clumsy gulps, he stared at nothing, and then turned his unseeing face toward each of them in turn. “Rose. And Breeli. And ... I don't think I know you, fellow.”</p><p>“Tillian Sri, call me Tillian. We met a few times, earlier, but I don't think you were awake.”</p><p>Cliffton smiled, pained. “I'll try to remember this time.”</p><p>With his eyesight taken away, he would be doing a lot of trying from now on. He would need to replace broad sight paintings with the movements and textures of airsense. Folk would ask questions, meaning well, and Cliffton would need to explain. He would need to be stronger than ever for his brothers. Rose would check in often, she decided; she couldn't bear the thought of Cliffton struggling any more.</p><p>Approaching figures stirred air in the street, and Niro led the Irving family in – Rose hadn't even noticed Niro leaving the sick house and she wished blessings on his intuition. The moment Fahras was through the door, looking at Cliffton, he wilted and lifted and smiled. He ran, with Arlin and Sherwin speaking relieved words behind him.</p><p>“Come close,” Rose said low. “He has trouble with his eyes now.”</p><p>“You're all right,” Fahras choked, like he hadn't even heard her.</p><p>Of all celebrations, Rose never thought she would be so glad for a simple Middling. New morning gemlight spilled down on Fenwater's main street; dozens of friends milled around the gathered baskets of plant trimmings; it was normal and beautiful. Even with four fellow aemets singing salvation hymns into the clear air. There was no telling how long folk would sing, but salvation songs, at least, spoke of relief and serenity as much as mourning.</p><p>“Fine work you did on that young man.”</p><p>Rose looked up from a basket of peelings, to find Peregrine adjusting his carrying pouch, straight-faced – anyone would think he hadn't said a word.</p><p>“Yes, it really was,” Tillian said, leaning around Peregrine's neck.</p><p>“Thank you.” A seasoned mage could have preserved Cliffton better, but Rose had given her bravest effort and that was all she had to give. She realized that fully now, with pride germinating inside her. Her nails itched to pick at each other; she rearranged root peels instead. “Healing is only a matter of watching the small things. I'll be better at that from now on.”</p><p>“Small things are precious,” Peregrine said. “It's why anyone bothers with diamonds.”</p><p>If only Rose could sit on his shoulder – a counterweight to Tillian – and learn for herself. Maybe if she weren't an aemet and if Peregrine led a whole village. Life would look wholly different, viewed from that angle.</p><p>“Can I bring you anything else, Tillian, good Peregrine?” Rose gathered her strength and lifted the basket. “The casting-quality quartz are yours, if you'd like any.”</p><p>“We'll take only a few, with our thanks,” Peregrine said. “Wellis. Keevi.”</p><p>Both ferrin stopped mid-lollop, ears lifting.</p><p>“If you'd help Rose to her Middling circle. Then meet me by the town's edge.”</p><p>“Of course!”</p><p>“Allow us, Rose?”</p><p>They seemed to truly love managing weight together. Rose set the basket down, because she couldn't imagine saying no to these devoted friends. “It's only a small ways into the forest,” she said. “I'll show you where.”</p><p>“Be ready to leave here once you're finished,” Peregrine told them.</p><p>His tone stirred understanding in Rose, some restless instinct behind her mind. Peregrine held his gaze away from Tillian, readying his supplies for flight: he was avoiding his earferrin even while she sat on his shoulder, peering at him. Rose stood at the edge of a mounting, unspoken worry, and sympathetic fear sent strength into her legs: something was about to be said that Rose had no business hearing.</p><p>Wellis and Keevi trotted away, maneuvering the Middling basket with such even strides that not a single trimming fell from the pile. As Rose turned to follow them, removing Belladonna's walking stick from her crooked elbow, she felt a biting need to speak to these friends.</p><p>“Apologies if it's not my place, Peregrine,” she said with all the courage she had. “But anything the two of you decide is well with me.”</p><p>His feathers hackled against the air; Tillian's head whipped to look at him, ears falling. And Rose's insides churned dreadful but she was right, she was <span class="u">right</span> and she could only hope the best for both of them.</p><p>“I'll keep your kin for a few moments,” she said, and she followed Wellis and Keevi's swaying tail brushes away.</p><p>Forest shadows ran cool fingers over Rose as she walked, a guardian presence of trees. She pushed her thoughts toward Verdana, toward thanking the Great One for every stem and offcut that Fenwater was poised to give back. But Rose kept finding blazing Fyrian and spark-light Ambri within her thoughts. It felt oily and selfish inside Rose, but she couldn't stop the realization that she would take Tillian as a daughter of Fenwater, welcoming her with wide-spread arms.</p>
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<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter 26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tillian thought of Peregrine like she thought of the earth. Not in the way that earth sat underfoot and nourished plants, but in the broad, firm way it was always there. Peregrine had watched the whole family since Great Great Grandpapa Zitan, loving them all without question – Tillian wasn't supposed to have anything to fear.</p><p>She sat on Peregrine's shoulder, breathing in the medley of scents in Peregrine's arnica ointment, watching Fenwater's houses and trees trailing past. She etched the feel of his shoulder into her memory, like she was never going to feel it again; the grime-soft worries told Tillian Sri, call her Tillian, of Redessence Clan that she wasn't going home.</p><p>“It looks like fair flying.” Peregrine stopped in the shortgrass field and leaned on his tail, steady, unmoving.</p><p>“There's rain in the air. Only a whiff, though. It should be alright to fly for a day or so.”</p><p>“Hn.”</p><p>His muscles flowed underneath Tillian. His hands circled and supported her weight with polished ease and set her on the ground, so she sat there looking up and up at him.</p><p>“You're taking Wellis and Keevi in one trip, right?”</p><p>“I thought that seemed the best plan, yes.”</p><p>“Are you coming back?”</p><p>Peregrine shunted his gaze away. The worries told her truth: she and Peregrine had both changed, the two of them in these past wear-harsh days. A sturdier Peregrine stood here, tall and strong in the daylight, glaring at the ground and thinking about the sky. This might not be her Peregrine anymore. He might flap away again, without looking back.</p><p>Tillian's ears hung limp. She ought to raise them but she lacked the strength to lie right now. “I had a feeling you were going to do this,” she said. “And whatever changed ... I'm sorry.”</p><p>“Gods, Tillian.” Fangs slipped into his voice; he scrubbed his face with a palm. “You haven't done a thing you need to apologize for and neither has Rose.”</p><p>“Then don't leave me here.”</p><p>Wind moaned. The oak leaves muttered around them. Tillian didn't have to describe the sounds because Peregrine flew errands now, and miners didn't do that – not a miner, <span class="u">not a miner</span>, she should have realized it before. None of this meshed with the Peregrine she knew but she had watched it happen already, watched him take to the sky on tooth-gritting new strength.</p><p>“Don't just fly off. Please.” She came steps closer. “It would take me days to walk back to Skyfield. I could do it, it's just–”</p><p>“Stop it, I wouldn't do that to you. Fields have wolves in them.” He looked away, jaw set. This was tearing him inside; Tillian could see pain in every lifting feather, every line taut around his mouth. “You're better off here.”</p><p>Better off without her teammate and father and best friend. Better off without the grumble-gentle answers to her questions, and the perfectly shaped hollow of collarbone to lay in, and the times no one was selling roast nuts so Peregrine found her the next tastiest thing to eat. Rose couldn't do all that; no one else could. Tillian wanted to throw out all the Fenwater memories and wash inside her head, soap it up foamy and scrub the last eightday out of being; she had taken in so many lessons but this was a drastic trade for them.</p><p>“You have choices here,” Peregrine said, a whisper that yanked Tillian's ears higher. “You've got a mage to learn from, and friends of your own kind.”</p><p>“I could learn from Maythwind. I could–”</p><p>“You've got a way with people,” Peregrine said, firmer, “and a gift for learning what the land's got to show you. There's no call to waste that.”</p><p>“I'm not wasting anything!”</p><p>“You are as long as I'm weighing on you.”</p><p>Here was the heart of it, Tillian knew, chill and sure. Here was Peregrine fretting himself raw and snapping when anyone moved to tend his wound. He was thinking about himself right now and thinking about Tillian, never mixing the two. Tillian thought they had grown together all these years, since Tillian Sri was small enough to fit snug in his hands, each person bracing up the other; that had to have happened because she couldn't invent such tight-laced ideas. Tied tight into that was Tillian's knowledge that she would be the one to leave – in death, and not because anyone chose it.</p><p>“Peregrine.” She paused to shake her head. “You don't ask for anything I'm not happy to give you. Do you just not want me being your earferrin?”</p><p>His mouth twitched. “I ... I don't want you being anyone's earferrin. You deserve better.”</p><p>Tillian took a sarong ruffle in her hands for something to wring. She would live every moment over again, see Peregrine's wry smiles and hear the bustle of Redessence Clan and wait in the golden grass outside the mine. But she knew in her bones that Peregrine didn't want to hear that. She tried the secondmost truth in her heart – and she shaped her words clear, because Peregrine couldn't seem to make himself look at her.</p><p>“You were busy these past days, so maybe you didn't notice. But everybody needs people. They might not be around forever but they've all got their own voice to add to the song, and it's just not the same with different voices. You want the same voices you recognise deep down inside. I don't think I can explain that sound, but you know what it's like, right?”</p><p>“I remember.”</p><p>“I'll miss Rose and Fahras and Breeli and everybody else here. But I miss my family a lot more. Maybe I can just visit Fenwater sometimes, if you don't mind to bring me here?”</p><p>He said nothing, for a huge and gnawing moment. It was one thing to know that Peregrine was lifetimes old, but here the fact stood, right in front of Tillian. It was sounded out in the dry old rustle of Peregrine's feathers as he shifted – he must have used up a lot of his time fretting.</p><p>“You've done well here.” Peregrine hitched his arms tighter around himself. His throat worked. “I'm proud of you. I've always been proud of you.”</p><p>A smile spilled out over her. “I'm proud of you, too.”</p><p>Peregrine gave her a wood-dark glance. “Are you?”</p><p>“Yes.” She lolloped close and put a hand to his skin. “You're not the only one who feels that way about folk, you know.”</p><p>“Feh. I thought I was the only one farming pride.”</p><p>“It would be more like mining, wouldn't it?”</p><p>“I'm not a miner.”</p><p>He hadn't stopped smirking as he said it. Tillian's heart flew.</p><p>“Look at it that way,” she said. “I'm not an earferrin if I'm not helping a miner. I'm–”</p><p>She had no honest idea of what she was right now; taking away one word could leave such a wide hole in a person. She folded her ears.</p><p>“I'm an aide, I guess. An aide who listens.”</p><p>Sound tugged Tillian's attention – Keevi was chirping something enthusiastic that carried in the clear air. There wasn't long left to talk to Peregrine. But that was fine. The worries had nothing left to say.</p><p>“Not just an aide to Redessence, I should hope,” he murmured.</p><p>“I won't be cleaning up after Giala all day, if that's what you mean. I'll pick a trade, I promise! Ambri strike me if I don't.”</p><p>Peregrine crouched, slow as rusted hinges. “Healing, do you suppose?”</p><p>“Maybe! It wouldn't be as hard as it was these past few days, if I trained for the job.”</p><p>He let out a breath. “Good. That's good.”</p><p>Years had passed without Peregrine petting her like this. Tillian only realized it as his hand bent her ear flat and enveloped her head, smearing gentle on her fur.</p><p>“I'll come back,” Peregrine said.</p><p>She closed her eyes, and she glowed. “You promise?”</p><p>“With all my heart.” And then Peregrine straightened, sailing up to his full height as Wellis and Keevi and Rose drew close.</p><p>“All right,” Wellis said, looking between the two of them – he asked a wary question with his ears. “Are we ready to go?”</p><p>“And you can have us again if you ever need us,” Keevi was bubbling to Rose. “We could round up our kittens, if you'd like their help, too! I don't think they went far from Skyfield.”</p><p>Rose smiled genuine. “That's kind of you. I'll keep it in mind, and I'll try to have some korvi here for the running. And I'm sure some Fenwater folk will come back, after a while.”</p><p>“We're ready,” Peregrine told Wellis, and then Rose, “I'll carry news back to Opens. Is there any word you'd like passed along to Ethen? Or Daisy, perhaps?”</p><p>She bit her lip. “They're likely still caring for their stricken. I only hope they're well, and Verdana watch everyone.”</p><p>Peregrine unfolded the carrying pouch, and held it wide as Wellis and Keevi climbed in. “Fine. Then I'll be off.”</p><p>He didn't waste words and he never had. He nodded to Tillian because that was plenty – it told her she still had a home and all the love she needed. Peregrine held tight to fellow family, and he tensed and leaped and sailed away over the trees. Maybe it was the arnica at work, or else Tillian's hands and words working magic, but flight looked easier for him this time; he didn't flap like hurt ripped between his wings.</p><p>For a second time, Tillian pulled her attention away from the sky and followed the Fenwater mage toward trees. Rose moved tired now, her every step and turn deliberate, her breathing a deeper-drawn sound. Like she uprooted her energy with a straining yank. Maybe the demon did that, Tillian wondered, watching the particular motion of this friend-person's limbs. Or maybe Rose just hadn't figured out how to carry her mage wisdom yet. Whatever the odd change was, Tillian hoped it would go away – or, at least, she hoped that Rose wasn't bothered by it. Her face was nearly smooth enough to be convincing.</p><p>They dismantled the last sick bed, Rose stacking the linens and mats into Tillian's waiting arms. The sheets and blankets could be aired out to get rid of the sickness smell and returned to their homes, whether a family was there to own them or not. Tillian tried to imagine this sick house as a home, as a place filled to its brim with contented people. The happy, crowded flavour in the air was easy to mind-smell; the look of real happiness in this space was trickier, wedging the daydream apart.</p><p>She finally asked, “Who lives here?”</p><p>“Oh, no one. This building is meant for the mage's use. That's why I chose it when the demon came.” Rose paused, a blanket folded against her chest. “Tillian? Please forgive me, it's not my place to pry, but has Peregrine ...?”</p><p>A smile wormed onto Tillian's mouth. Memory showed her that Peregrine had been tense every time he had visited Fenwater. He sat present around Tillian, careful, spectral, a watching god-spirit. The unsteadiness between them had to be flaringly obvious, even to other kinds.</p><p>“No, he's coming back for me. It's no trouble to ask, Rose! You need to know who will stay, right? To see if you have a village.” Tillian couldn't imagine this village working, not with less than thirty folk in it – there wouldn't be enough hands to manage all the day-to-day weight.</p><p>“I'll find folk.” Rose frowned at the blanket; its worn edges refused to match squarely for her. “There are always korvi looking for a place to do odd jobs, so I'll put out a call. A few folk must like the sound of forest and farm tasks. I suppose I'll need to spend a few days' time recruiting, when I have a mageling to look after things in my stead.”</p><p>Tillian could carry that honour, she knew with the same gut wisdom telling her she couldn't stay. That was what it meant to have friends: she wanted to be everywhere at once, so she could sit by a dozen different sides.</p><p>“Breeli's kits did a good job for their age,” she said. “You could ask them. Or what about Fahras?”</p><p>That brought a laugh from Rose, a silent breath of air passed through a smile. “I'd need to make magelings of every Irving brother if I trained Fahras. Oh, speaking of which! I found some young turnip greens, I should bring those to Cliffton. Dark greens are the best thing one can have when recovering from sickness.”</p><p>“All right,” Tillian said, and then realized she had just been taught. Dark green leaves could bolster a sick person. She stored the thought more carefully, because she might need to nurse again someday. “Can I help you with anything?”</p><p>“Just by keeping me company, if you would.”</p><p>Rose cleaned food leaves with methodical strokes, laying the greens in rows so they looked like a closed feather fan. While she worked, she told the tale of the Legend Creature Mandragora encouraging some shy turnips to send up shoots and look at the wonders above the earth's surface. The words dyed Tillian's memory, vivid patches of story structure. She promised herself to practice that legend, repeat it out loud sometime and polish it, in case she met someone who needed to be told.</p><p>When the turnip greens were all free of mud, Rose stared at them for a pained moment.</p><p>“I ought to check on the Saranstas family first. They're settling back into their house now, just Merle and Clover, for the time being. At least there are two of them, but ...”</p><p>Being suddenly alone was the worst fate an aemet could imagine, Rose didn't add.</p><p>“Then go check,” Tillian said. “And if the Irvings need anything, I'll tell you.”</p><p>“If you would, Tillian? We'd all appreciate it.”</p><p>With the greens bundled up in plain cotton and gripped in her teeth, Tillian ran. Fenwater looked more like a living, breathing village already, just from the two villagers walking in the street; they were headed into empty homes, maybe borrowing things that didn't have owners present to ask permission from. The sight of aemets on their feet, free of wet cloths and strangling sounds, felt like another variety of cure.</p><p>She followed Rose's directions and arrived at a house by a cotton field, a place with the scent of friends' fur and growing stems carried on the wind. Fahras, Breeli and Niro were inside, pressing and pulling a slate table across the dirt floor; their backs arced with effort. Rolara Riora sat watching them, her tail tapping thoughtful.</p><p>“Oh,” Fahras puffed, giving Tillian an open-mouthed smile, “is that for us?”</p><p>Tillian dropped the bundle into her hands to speak. “Rose said to steam them for less than two moments, or else the wholesomeness will cook out. And to make sure Cliffton eats some, even if you need to cut them up fine. Can I help with that table?”</p><p>“Plenty of hands here to spoil the broth, kit,” Breeli muttered. A string of looks passed between her and Niro, progressively softer.</p><p>“We're moving things so it's easier for Cliffton to get around,” Rolara Riora said. “There's too much stuff here.”</p><p>“It's all things we use,” Fahras said, ears falling. He abandoned the table. “But don't mind that, Tillian. Please give Rose our thanks and tell her we'll be fine! Cliffton's in the cotton field right now to get his sense used to it, and Rolara Riora–”</p><p>“Call me Riora.”</p><p>Delight lifted every ear in the house – they all knew ferrin kits chose their names eventually, but <span class="u">eventually</span> had a way of sounding years and years distant. Rolara Riora, call her Riora, tipped her head at her parents. The world must not have looked any different for her than it had for Tillian the moment she stopped being Tillian Sri.</p><p>“Anypace,” Riora said, “I'm going to stay here and help Cliffton. Is there such a thing as an eyeferrin? There should be.”</p><p>“Helping is helping,” Niro said.</p><p>“Say that twice, 'cause it's the truth.” Breeli slouched onto the table, all pantomine of work gone. “We'll be off to fetch our things out of the forest soon. No sense in staying out there now. We've only got a handful of earthly anything so it shouldn't take long, but Tillian, we'd hate to miss you if you go. Are you leaving, kit?”</p><p>That wasn't the right word for it. Leaving meant never coming back.</p><p>“I'm going home,” Tillian said, “as soon as Peregrine comes back.”</p><p>“You'd best visit! I'm not about to wrangle Rose by myself – I only have a few good years left, you know!”</p><p>“You're good to have here,” Niro agreed.</p><p>Fahras had words on his tongue; he shifted his feet and didn't say a thing.</p><p>“I'll visit” Tillian said. “I promise.”</p><p>Then the table was fully forgotten, left cock-eyed in the middle of the Irving house while Tillian's friends came and hugged her close. All at once in a warm crush, like littermates and like everything being all right. And as Fahras groomed her forehead – just for a moment, one shy lick – Tillian shuffled her thoughts around. She wouldn't come back to Fenwater for her friends or for the people she had aided. She'd come to see her other family.</p>
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<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter 27</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After two months' time, the demon gripthia returned to its swamp depths; Peregrine bothered to listen to rumours until he was sure.</p><p>Maythwind agreed that there was no more need for the arnica, or at least not a daily habit of it. He hummed and fussed as he said it, and asked Della's thoughts on the subject. Perhaps two half-opinions added up to a whole, because Della stammered agreement and Peregrine received no further prodding on the subject. His wingshoulders droned sore after each flight but he managed plenty well.</p><p>“You look fifty years younger,” Giala told him one evening.</p><p>It took Peregrine a moment to understand, mostly because he hadn't been looking at her. But the meaning still cobbled together on its own; he heard more fragments of Giala's voice than before, finding them glinting like peridots in sand. He carried on rubbing the skins off sweetnuts. “Fifty years? That's a tall tale.”</p><p>She smiled. The hearth coals died slow, giving a red cast to her colouring and still adding to the beastly heat in Redessence's home. “I mean your shape is better, light. There's more muscle in your wingshoulders, I can really see it now.”</p><p>He had been flying higher of late. He had been challenging the swifter wind currents simply to remember how.</p><p>“That's the best news I've heard in years,” Peregrine said, warm inside, and he looked back to the nuts. He had a half dozen plans for these – most involved honey-roasting and sharing with the ferrin.</p><p>Sound shuddered through the house's poles: someone was knocking, and it was a red-feathered someone who didn't bother waiting for answer before he walked in.</p><p>Giala! Good to see you, dear friend! And might I say that if feathers were wishes, I'd moult on the spot if that'd make the wait shorter next time, truly, I would!</p><p>Giala chirped a laugh, fanning her wings to match Syril. “Make yourself at home! Dinner's nearly ready, will you stay for a bowl?”</p><p>I suppose I could manage! It's been a flight and three-quarters, my dear. And Peregrine!</p><p>He shouldn't have hoped to stay unnoticed.</p><p><span class="u">Word on the wind is that you're doing fine service!</span> Syril sat by the fire, grinning like a dog. <span class="u">I dare say you'll steal my business out from under me, building repute as you are!</span></p><p>“I can't imagine you'll miss a handful of message errands.”</p><p>The messages all seemed mundane to Peregrine: <span class="u">hello; how are you; our family is well</span>. But simple thoughts could be salt-precious – it wasn't his place, as a messenger, to know the message's whole meaning.</p><p>He put aside the rubbing cloth full of nuts. Hooked into the conversation as he was, it was only right to face their guest and act accordingly. “At any pace, you're busy enough to merit taking a break, Reyardine. How is your son?”</p><p>Syril squawked like he had been bitten, waving both bead-cluttered hands. <span class="u">Skies full of blasted lightning, where did you hear that?!</span></p><p>“From Rose. To my knowledge, Rose only tells tales that are true.”</p><p>“The version I heard,” Giala said, rubbing ceramic glaze flakes from her hands, “was that you asked to look after the dear boy yourself. Isn't that right?”</p><p><span class="u">That was only what anyone with a heart would do, friends, don't get those ropes tangled up! I helped the child a little while the demon was about. It wasn't the slightest trouble, really, I only flew him away from certain death.</span> Syril puffed out his chest as he said that. Irony was a word too trifling to bother him. <span class="u">Terrible shame about his true family, of course, gods watch each unfortunate one of them. But that child ... ...</span></p><p>Peregrine waited out the worst of the babbling.</p><p>... And anyone who could watch him wake from his healing sleep, see those deep wells of eyes and just leave him to fortune's whims, well– The point of my thorn here is that I'm one of his caretakers, that's truly all I am! Simply a warm hearth for him to pause by!</p><p>Peregrine recalled similar proud notions: they filled from his own head when Zitan was young, when Redessence Clan just a terrifying spark of an idea. He glanced to Giala; she caught his eye and smiled back.</p><p>“Well, however it works best for you,” she told Syril, bringing a steaming bowl to put in his hands. “Have you learned the little fellow's name yet?”</p><p>Ahh, there's the trick, and thank you Giala, bless your heart, what a divine-smelling meal you've made! We don't know where in the gods' green land the dear boy came from. Rose doesn't know his face and neither does the rest of Fenwater. The best guess we can make is that the child's family was travelling westward and they dipped enough toes in the Fenwater swamps for the demon to find them. The child doesn't even know his own self, with the state his mind is in! It's a dreadful shovelful of mud, friends, to ask a young sprout where he's from and have him only stare at you, truly dreadful!</p><p>Giala's mouth rounded in low-pitched sympathy. “His head hasn't cleared at all?”</p><p>
  <span class="u">No, I regret to say! Not a hair's width of change since he woke up, gods help us with that. It must have been that wretched fever.</span>
</p><p>Syril fidgeted, and left the longest stretch of quiet Peregrine had ever seen out of him.</p><p><span class="u">Well</span>, he decided, <span class="u">the real bright spot of it is the way he calmed right down for me when he first awoke. He was fussing something terrible and all of a sudden, he laid eyes on me and he was a crow with a new brass button. I was the only one he cared a whit for!</span></p><p>“A fine choice,” Giala said warm.</p><p>She passed another generous-filled stew bowl to Peregrine; the scent of stewed rabbit put his mouth to watering and he had nothing to add to the conversation. He watched Syril's face twist with thought. The good Reyardine was looking less foolish by the day.</p><p>
  <span class="u">I had a question to ask of you friends, if I might. Fyrian strike me now if it's not my place, but supposing I gave the little bug a new name?</span>
</p><p>“Why would you even pause over that?” Giala beamed. “It's a sweet idea.”</p><p><span class="u">Ah, well! It's only that the sound of a name has such a weight on a young soul – and you'd know about that, watching your ferrin kin as you have. Skies, I'd only hate to pick a wrong-sounding name, it's–</span> and a moment of chatter about colours and thread. Some tangent about embroidery, perhaps.</p><p>“Reyardine,” Peregrine said. “What's the name?”</p><p><span class="u">Ah.</span> He swallowed. <span class="u">It's Chance.</span></p><p>“On an aemet?” Giala squinted, painting possibilities inside her head. “That's truer than they tend to name their children.”</p><p>And wouldn't you know it, that's exactly what I thought. But it's only by fortune and chance that we still have the boy with us. Truest tale anyone ever heard, bet a treeful of apples on it!</p><p>A lolloping flash caught Peregrine's eye: Tillian returned from a day of her new trade, ears drooping satisfied. Her pendant hung tangled together with her gem-studded mageling collar, a blue stone among clear fellows.</p><p>“Fine timing, my dear,” Giala said. “Are you hungry?”</p><p>“Only a little bit, thank you. Della, Wellis and Keevi will be back shortly, they said. Maythwind just wanted their hands for rearranging some boxes.”</p><p>“Tillian,” Peregrine supposed, “you're a more likely one to answer this question. Is Chance a strange name?”</p><p>She tipped her head. “Who's being named?”</p><p>“Syril's son.”</p><p>Syril mumbled into his bowl – some nonsense about <span class="u">a basket too large for the truth to fill</span>.</p><p>“No one's been able to figure what the boy's birth name is.”</p><p>Bowl in hand, Tillian shuffled to Peregrine's sitting blanket. “You could give him a few names and let him pick? Even though he's not ferrinkind.”</p><p>Giala laughed – perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Peregrine heard more of it now, more of her carefree depth of voice. “Chance Othername? Call him Chance?”</p><p>Skies, friends! That's all well and warm-hearted, but he's an aemet looking up to a korvi. Imagine if I tied a ferrin name about his neck! He'd have four helpings of trouble puzzling out which kind he is!</p><p>“He'll figure out what's important, I think,” Tillian said. She settled by Peregrine's side; the gentle-brushing presence was one he could mistake for his own feathers.</p><p>“As long as the little one has folk caring for him,” Giala agreed, “he'll find his way. Oh, speaking about finding a way!” She fluttered her hands, standing, abandoning her bowl on the sitting carpet. “My good Reyardine, I wanted to ask your thoughts. Let me show you my Legend Creatures! I came across a wonderful new way to swirl the glazework, I'm simply not sure whether it's worth being late over.”</p><p>“I thought you were finished,” Peregrine said.</p><p>“I am finished, light. Mostly.”</p><p>He had more sense than to argue that. All he needed to do was steel his wings for the trip to Hotrock, to tell Tijo his long-awaited statues were on their way. Placing them in the East Hotrock Middling circle would surely light a fresh fire in the spirits of East Hotrock's remaining aemets.</p><p><span class="u">Nothing helps a clay work like handsome glaze on it, that's what I say! Ah, and while we're remembering things.</span> Syril came before Tillian, neck bowed elegant and pinions fanned. His clutched dinner bowl ruined the effect some. <span class="u">Fahras wished me to say hello, Tillian. He hopes you and your family are well. The wish is from all of Fenwater to all of Redessence Clan, to be clear as wind on that, but Fahras had the most particular wish to pass the sentiment along!</span></p><p>“Oh! Thank you.”</p><p>With a half bow, Syril turned to Giala, picking up his spoon once more and chattering off about fine clay glaze. Peregrine couldn't bring himself to follow the conversation, not with Tillian's ears splaying thoughtful. For all the bustle, for all the mageling studies and close-gathered family, Tillian still seemed to miss Fenwater; she had grown quieter of late. Or perhaps that was the vinegar voice in Peregrine's mind telling him so.</p><p>Tillian caught him watching. She abandoned her hot meal to climb onto his shoulder, tail brush ghosting on his feathers, weight curling perfectly into his collarbone.</p><p>“Here,” she murmured, “I have something worth listening to.”</p><p>“Wonderful.”</p><p>She shook, perhaps stifling a laugh from Syril's ears. “I'm getting better with the brightcasting. Maythwind says I could be charging light stones by the end of this month, but I think he's guessing generously. I'm doing the exercises slowly so Della can learn it, too.”</p><p>If Peregrine thought Tillian would leave anyone to flounder by themselves, he would be blind as well as deaf.</p><p>“It's not that hard, Maythwind just has a different way of teaching things than Rose does. I think I've got the feel of brightcasting now. It should feel like a spirit nestling in beside your birth casting, shouldn't it?”</p><p>“I wouldn't know. Borrowing light through a stone is different in no small way.”</p><p>“That's true. Well, then learning a new casting feels like a spirit nestling in beside your birth casting. So you know.”</p><p>Peregrine smirked. “Of course.”</p><p>“It's wonderful, actually! I can't use flesh-mending skills yet, just the regular bright light like you used to borrow for your mines. But I can call on it and it comes. If I'd been able to do this before–”</p><p>She squirmed. Perhaps she thought that a mistake to say aloud, but the fact was merely true.</p><p>“I'd like to visit Fenwater soon, actually. Fahras said he was going to learn plantcasting properly, so I thought I could see how he's doing.”</p><p>Fahras had looked surer with Tillian by his side – a pleasant thought for all involved. Peregrine laid down his dishes and settled, still exhaling flavourful dinner steam. “Once Giala's statues are delivered,” he said, “I'll bring you clear across the land, if you'd like.”</p><p>“Oh, yes, there's no rush for it! I can practice in the meantime.” She paused. “Can I practice brightcasting on you tonight?”</p><p>There was no sense wasting a mage's time and strength on a recovering old miner; Peregrine had thought that so many times that the words bleached pallid and lost their meaning. Maythwind had the entire village to think of and far be it from Peregrine to distract him any more.</p><p>There was a considerable amount of sense, though, in providing a new mageling with a casting subject. Tillian could put her new energies through their paces, learning how to wheedle hearing back into an old korvi's head; Peregrine would sit patiently, tolerate the off-mark sensation of novice casting, and call it a fair trade for all the sitting he had ever asked of her.</p><p>“I suppose you can,” he said.</p><p>“Good.” She sounded fond and radiant. “I'll need to figure out how exactly to cast on you, but Maythwind says it's fundamentally the same as mending a cut. It's just doing what would come naturally, only doing it faster.”</p><p>Bodies rebuilt themselves – Peregrine could tell that already from the shavings of sound returning to his ears, in the tones of voice he hadn't heard for himself in twenty years. Perhaps with more time and more attention, he could focus careful and hear the burble of river water, or the grind of his claws against dirt. Perhaps he would etch messages into his thoughts with ease. His wings would be strong by then, as much as a reasonable fellow of one hundred and sixty-nine years could hope for.</p><p>“Do whatever helps you,” Peregrine muttered.</p><p>“It'll help you, too, you know.” Tillian crossed his shoulders and slid between his wings, down toward her cooling meal. “Just tell me whenever you'd like it done, all right? I'll be ready.”</p><p>Peregrine didn't doubt that for a moment.</p>
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